


Lock In

by Lancette



Category: Being Human (UK), Britchell - Fandom, The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Fingerless Gloves, M/M, Some Plot, some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancette/pseuds/Lancette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is pissed off in a rain-soaked Bristol... and then he ducks into The Bag O'Nails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bag O'Nails

**Author's Note:**

> ~ with thanks to the wonderful solarlotus, who is not only funny and talented, but also the world's greatest enabler. Thank you for leading me astray. It's been all kinds of brilliant :) ~

Seventeen.

Seventeen fucking times in the past six months.

Anders’ eyes flicked over the delicious hips and arse weaving inches from his face before the creamy vision moved on. He didn’t lick his lips at the sight, but pursed them a little instead as his mind went walkabout. How the hell did the artfully draped black mesh stay in place while the hips gyrate like that? Surely the laws of physics still apply even though the evidence currently before his eyes was enough to make him question the little he could recall. It must be toupėe tape, or double-sided sellotape, or maybe that stuff actors use to stick modesty cock-socks to their groins for sex scenes. Christ, bet it hurts to rip that off every -

‘Holy mother of…!’

The exclamation fell somewhere between a gasp and a coronary from Mr. Bloody Edwards (‘Bloody founder of this great company and don’t you bloody forget it, my lad’) sitting just to Anders’s left, and leaning so far forward on his chair it was a miracle he didn’t catapult straight onto the stage and into Ms. Medusa’s wonderfully pert behind.

Anders couldn’t help a snort into his cocktail glass. There was a distinct possibility that Mr. B. Edwards wouldn’t last the night at this rate.

‘Ar..guh..uh.’

Right. That would be Medusa removing said artful black mesh, then. Last item of clothing disposed of, and the highlights still to come. What a memory for Edwards and his assistant-stroke-lackey to take back to the suburbs; they’ll be recommending J:PRB to all their golf club and lodge mates in no time flat. It wasn’t exactly the high life he’d come chasing, but Anders had to take whatever he could get in this godawful backwater of a place, at least until he had an exit strategy.

Anders twisted to catch the eye of The Lackey sitting at the back of their table. ‘Just wait ‘til he sees Medusa play with the snakes.’

The Lackey turned a fetching shade of pale green visible even under the dim lights. ‘Snakes?’ He cleared his throat with a strangulated cough, clearly it had gone bone dry all of a sudden. ‘More than one?’

‘Yeah. Three. Medusa, she’s a fucking goddess. Sort of. I reckon she’s a legit trained dancer because, well, look at that flexibility. Wonder why… gotta be better money here.’

The Lackey stood up and swayed a little. ‘I’ll go to the bar. Get you anything?’ He half-shouted across the escalating bass beats vibrating the club floor.

Looking down Anders was surprised to see his own glass still full.

‘Nah, thanks Rupert, but I’m alright, mate. Get them to put it on my tab, right?’

Was he Rupert? Or was it Rufus? Anders took a tight gulp of now-warm vodka. Who gives a shit really, it’s just the same-old and not like Rupert-Rufus could hear one way or the other over the beat now the snakes were on stage. And on Medusa.

Seventeen clients brought to Peppermint Shark in six months.

OK so it was the hottest new thing in Bristol since - since what? The suspension bridge, maybe; or that railway tunnel near Box which the “Welcome To Avon and Somerset for Business Leaders: Lunch and Industrial Heritage Presentation (Part1)” had gone on and on about despite Anders faking a snore. But then those hadn’t come with anyone like the spectacular Medusa, at least as far as he knew, although perhaps that was covered in Presentation (Part2). He hadn’t gone back for that.

Anyway, seventeen clients had signed on the dotted line, so it was all good. Small scale easy pickings, if he was being honest about it, but good all the same. Whether it was Medusa and her talents or a little bit of Bragi that sealed the deals, who cared. Either way it was at double the going rate for basic PR; _so_ basic Anders could pretty much get Dawn to do most of the jobs for him, which was a tempting idea. What was the point of a year spent buried in the depths of England’s West Country instead of the London gig he’d expected if he can’t empower his staff to grow their skill-set?

That’s it - he’d empower Dawn; empower her _a lot_.

The club erupted into energised hoots and whistles while Anders stared at the ring stains on the table top and turned the glass in his hands.

What the fuck was his problem tonight?

He took stock and yep, despite Medusa’s efforts his arousal had peaked at precisely seventeen percent hard. Not unpleasant, obviously, but with Mr. B. Edwards on track for a hundred and seventeen percent and cardiac arrest, and Rupert-Rufus hiding from the snakes by skulking at the bar, it felt like tonight was rapidly turning into a fucking write-off.

Twenty minutes later and Anders was buzzing with frustration. Rupert-Rufus was now having trouble deciphering his boss’s latest drinks order over the volume of the soundtrack which had been ramped up to 11, and more alarmingly Edwards had stopped drooling over the edge of the stage and was sneaking only occasional glances at the show.

Fuck it. Time to use the big guns. As Rupert-Rufus left for the bar again with an uncertain frown, Anders leant as close to Edwards as he dared.

‘You’re the founder of the best damn car showroom in Bristol, aren’t you?’ His voice as silky as he could make it over the din.

‘Best in the whole of the South West! Now let me tell you a thing or two about business, my lad-’

‘And you built it up from nothing.’

‘Twenty years of hard graft. Not a penny handout from anyone, let me tell you-’

A smirk lifted the edges of Anders’s mouth, it was time for Bragi to have a little play.

‘ _And your lovely wife has been with you every step of the way_.’

‘Yes, she has. She’s a diamond, that woman.’

‘ _A gem. And she’s given you two beautiful daughters who are the light of your life_.’

Mr. Bloody Edwards started to look a little teary at the thought, and Anders ploughed on quickly, Bragi-smooth.

‘ _Lovely girls. And just about the same age as the girl dancing on stage right now wearing a glittery… oops, so sorry… not wearing a glittery g-string_.’

He gave Edwards two seconds to imitate a rabbit in the headlights and then continued.

‘ _You want to go home, Barry, you want to go home to your gem of a wife, don’t you?_ ’

‘Yes. You’re right. I do.’

Edwards immediately started to gather up his things and hunted through his wallet to find his cloakroom ticket. He held it up to show Anders with a grin of triumph. Christ, Mr. Edwards really did want to go home, in fact he had probably wanted to be at home the whole evening. Anders was going to have to run after him if he didn’t cut to the chase fast.

‘ _You want to go home, and tomorrow at 9am you will receive the contract by email, and you will sign it straight away. You don’t need lawyers fucking it up and taking their cut. You do things your way, always have, that’s right isn’t it Barry?_ ’

‘9am.’ Edwards nodded furiously as he scraped his chair back straight onto Rupert-Rufus’ foot.

‘Put the drink down, Ralph, I’m going home to my diamond.’

Ralph (pronounced Rafe, what else?! Anders sniggered into his drink) took his frown of confusion up a notch as he dumped a bile-green shot glass on the table.

‘Oh, I thought you were staying in town tonight, sir.’

‘Not while my gem’s at home. Let’s go.’

Ralph-Rafe looked at Anders as if he would somehow decipher the situation. Anders shrugged, ‘I thought he sold cars, what’s with the jewelry?’, he offered with full voltage innocence.

The young man looked blank. ‘Perhaps Mr. Edwards has had more to drink than we thought. I’ll drive him home, Mr. Johnson. Thank you for this evening it’s been, um…’

‘Zoological? No worries. Call me Anders.’

‘Yes, very.’ This time Ralph cracked a grin. ‘Thanks, Anders. We’ll get back to you about the contract.’

Yes, you will. Anders smirked as he watched the pair head off towards the exit with only an occasional wobble.

And given the size of their bar tab at strip club prices, he’d add on an extra seventeen percent to the contract, just because.

~~~~~~

Bristol crouched down under a blanket of drizzle as Anders stood outside the club weighing his options.

It had been a pretty crap night although it wasn’t Peppermint Shark’s fault. Anders had been over-exposed to its charms and after playing there for so long, with a little help from Bragi when needed, there was no mystery left, no tease, and precious little temptation. The lack of a turn-on tonight still rankled though, especially as he knew just how well-trained Medusa’s snakes really were given a little privacy, and that memory alone usually did the trick - from hello to rock hard in well under seventeen seconds.

He stared down at the phone in his hand. It wasn’t particularly late yet, he could go back inside, have a little chat, talk her home for a repeat hook-up. But annoying though it was, his heart - or, more precisely, his dick - just wasn’t in it.

He made a mental note to find another venue to woo his trickier clients in future. It would mean heading out of Bristol, but that could be a bonus - taking a limo to Cardiff or even London and back, with champagne, some in-flight entertainment, and plenty of time for Bragi to weave a bit of magic.

Anders looked up at the drizzle lit by street lamps and almost moaned aloud in disgust. What kind of bloody climate was this anyway! He shot a glance down the hill to see the inevitable: and yes, of course there were no taxis sitting at the taxi rank, because it was nearly midnight and all the taxis were preparing to evaporate in a puff of diesel fumes. Bastards. This town was doing his head in. He would _not_ be staying here another six months, Mike could go fuck himself because he was relocating to London. He’d take his chances. Dawn could get on the case tomorrow and she could just stop with the whole fucking ‘I love this city, it’s got such a great vibe’ chat.

After toying with the idea of phoning Dawn and getting her to pick him up, Anders decided the night was already enough of a damp failure for him to duck into the pub next to the taxi rank and watch out for any lonesome cabbies. If none appeared after one drink, then he’d get the bar staff to call him a mini-cab.

Deal struck in his mind, Anders stuffed his phone back into his pocket and walked into The Bag O’Nails.

~~~~~~

 On second thoughts, this was looking like a very bad move.

The pub was a spit-and-sawdust dive furnished almost entirely out of ancient - and probably filthy - dark wood. Floors, tables, chairs, benches, all of them. He didn’t fancy sitting down on any of them, not in his decent trousers. Anders knew before he even got to the bar that his request for a glass of wine would prompt the only choice available: ‘would that be the red or the white?’. At least it wouldn’t take long to be served as the place was half-empty. With any luck he wouldn’t have to talk his way out of a punch in the face for not being a local.

He propped himself beside a young man with short cropped hair and the most unfashionable checked shirt still in existence.

‘Do you have a Pinot Noir?’ Young man asked the barman.

Anders stopped rolling his eyes at the shirt and started to listen in. Pinot Noir? Really? In here?

‘Absolutely, would you like the Cloudy Bay or the Greywacke?’

‘Erm.’ Young man pressed his no-rim glasses back against the bridge of his nose with one finger as he focused on the prices.

‘The Cloudy Bay. Just a small glass, please.’

Anders was surprised as much by a rush of nostalgia for New Zealand as the impressive bar stock. Nostalgia for an Auckland where at this exact moment it would be a sunny lunchtime with blue skies, and beaches only minutes away.

Caught out by the barman’s polite enquiry, Anders gestured vaguely at the wine bottle.

‘Same again, mate.’

Anders’ eye wandered across the array of pumps with their bizarre names, and a myriad bottles jostling for space on the shelves behind. Alright, he’d admit it, he’d seriously have to stop judging Bristol by its perma-damp cover. If he dug a little deeper, who knows what delights he could uncover.

A tiny cheer went up in the Snug bar, and Anders found himself moving away from his intended seat by the window to follow the short-haired guy through a low door and towards the laughter.

‘That’s three-nil!’ A young woman with spirals of dark curls and wrapped in a grey cardigan too light for the endless drizzle outside, bounced on the edge of the bench when short-haired guy sat down next to her. ‘I had no idea!’

‘Yeah well, just think of all the years of practice he’s had. They say it’s a sign of a misspent youth, and I think we can safely say Mitchell has had plenty of that. Oh no, Christ, is that the time?’ Short-haired guy tilted his wrist to double-check the watch facing inwards. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m back on early shifts tomorrow, plus Nina’ll be home soon and I need to be there for her, y’know, what with the cooking and the… everything.’

‘You go on, I’ll catch you back at home.’ The spiral-curls girl tried a wink so exaggerated Anders stifled a laugh from where he’d sat just behind their table.

‘You most certainly will not!’ her friend said with uncalled-for vehemence before gulping half the glass down in one go. ‘You will walk home with me, using your feet, on the pavement, like a real human being, none of the spooky stuff tonight, we agreed.’

‘But Mitchell’s just taken another bet.’

‘Another one? He’s gonna win us our beer money for the whole month at this rate. He is Housemate of the Year. But look it’s gone midnight so…’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for him?’

‘What? To make sure he gets home safe? It’s OK now Annie. We’re sorted. Everything’s going to be fine. But I’ll just check he’s OK.’ Short-haired guy half disappeared out of view for a few seconds, leaning over a table tucked round the corner.

Anders played with the idea of offering Annie a lift home. Why not? She was beautiful, once he got past the fact her wardrobe was printed entirely in greyscale. He could have a whole lot of fun spending the night talking her into - and out of - some hot pink…

Before Anders could finish his half-hearted thought, her friend returned with a grin and took another couple of sips to finish his glass.

‘He’s doubled the stakes. It’ll be beer _and_ chips money for the month.’

‘Your hero.’ The girl Annie’s smile was affectionate yet seemed a little sad, Anders thought.

‘Yeah, sorry about that. Oh! I know! We can make it beer and hobnobs instead, and then at least you can dunk.’

The sad smile brightened.

‘Sounds fair.’ She held up an admonishing finger. ‘OK, I’m coming, but you will not push me into any puddles just to see if I make a splash.’

Anders lost the rest of the frankly weird exchange as Annie and short-haired guy left by the side entrance, his arm resting across her grey shoulders. No wonder she didn’t fancy walking home in the rain dressed like that, she’d get soaked through and those Uggs weren’t going to help. Who wore Uggs now anyway? Daggy Australian monstrosities.

This town was driving him insane, and the only tempting body in the pub had just walked out of the door without even looking his way. Anders was all for putting his glass down undrunk and ordering the mini-cab - Right Now! - when he turned from staring after the departed weird couple to see the cause of their beer money excitement.

Two men started to circle the pool table.

Then the taller of the two leant over the far end of the table to rack up the balls.

Anders didn’t realise he’d paused with his glass at his lips for quite some time. When it eventually dawned on him he’d been hypnotised by long fingers collecting and stroking the balls into position, he let out a covering cough.

With a mental shake of the head he looked again. Christ almighty, but those gloves were just… awful. Fingerless gloves in sludgy camouflage green, and paired with clanking great goth faux-silver rings. How could anyone on the planet think this was a good combination?

He watched the fingers remove the triangle with precision. Musician’s fingers. Artist’s hands. Strong. Moving with intent …

Total disaster, those gloves, he told himself sternly.

When he looked up from the rim of his glass, Player Two was already breaking off and Fingerless Gloves guy had stepped back into the shadows.

Good, Anders thought. It was time to go, and whichever one was Mitchell he hoped he’d win and be able to give sweet, sad Annie her hobnobs - whatever that meant.

~~~~~~

A sudden impatience to get the whole fucking day over with as quickly as possible had him on his feet. With a lurch sideways to grab his coat from behind the bench he began to squeeze his way past the table and out of the cramped Snug.

With his mind still given over to repeating ‘fuck fucking Bristol’ over and over, there was no functioning capacity left for taking evasive action when he straightened up and brushed straight into a dark figure. A steadying hand cupped his hip for a split-second too long before the figure edged off to the side.

‘Watch where-' the snap was automatic, but he was interrupted.

'Sorry, man.' The voice sounded more amused than apologetic.

On another day Anders would have left it at that, shrugged a mutual apology and not looked back. But tonight he already felt off-balance. Knowing it was him that should have been first with the ‘sorry’ just made him more belligerent. He crossed his arms, coat hanging over them, and turned to stare down the figure with the lingering fingers.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to see the figure lean over the pool table.

Perfect. So one of those manky gloves had been stroking his hip. Handsy creep. The only question was whether to fumigate or to burn his trousers when he got home.

He looked down the table as the figure started to line up his shot, drawing the cue back and forth across the bridge of his hand. Can’t be easy to get a clean shot encumbered with idiot gloves…

The cue had halted, and Anders flicked his eyes up from the hands to find the player, still stretched out over his cue, and looking up at him from beneath black brows, one arched comically high.

‘Fancy a bet?’

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Hustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders takes the bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ warning: just smut, actually ~

Anders fancied a bet. In fact he fancied it very much indeed, and he didn’t like it one bit.

He wanted to be pissed off and sexually frustrated and to go home to his beautiful cold apartment, which did not have Medusa and her snakes writhing on black sheets (though it could, if he’d been arsed), and drink vodka, and watch porn, and miss his fish. _That’s_ what he wanted.

He glared at the eyes beneath the dark brows and pretended not to give a shit that they were warm and amused and inviting him to smile back. He ignored the mess of nearly-black curls, one of which had sprung forward and hung across an eye.

No, Anders told himself, there was only one reason he fancied a bet - and it was so that sweet, sad Annie could have more hobnobs to dunk. He was still not sure what this involved, exactly, but if he lost at least Annie would benefit. Perhaps he could insist she buy herself a half-decent coat with the extra winnings.

He shifted his gaze back to Player Two, a short man with a middle-aged beer belly under a striped rugby shirt. Frankly, both players looked unlikely housemates for someone like wine-drinking short-haired guy, but of the two the lanky younger player seemed a better bet.

‘So. Are we on, or are you leaving?’ Fingerless gloves man waited.

Anders cocked his head to one side with a deliberate frown creasing between his brows. He waited until the man’s thumb began to tap at the green baize.

‘Maybe. What’s the stakes?’

‘Twenty quid.’ The other player chimed in. ‘Pick a winner. But I’m telling you, this bugger’s luck is about to run out.’

The laugh that followed was surprisingly deep and Anders ignored the answering tug in his groin. Perhaps he was hungry.

‘OK. You’re on. Twenty quid says the bugger in the gloves is gonna lose.’

The man in the gloves huffed. ‘Mistake, man. Big one.’

He stayed in position with his arm stretched out over the table, but relaxed his cue arm enough to roll his shoulders and ease the accumulated tension before taking the shot.

As mistakes go, it wasn’t momentous. He couldn’t have known that Anders had such a clear view of shoulder and back muscles tensing and rolling under the pull of his black shirt. Nor could he have guessed that Anders would let out a sudden, choked sound. The shot missed by a mile.

Anders turned to grab his wine glass from the table behind him and tossed back the dregs. Thirsty, that’s it. He was thirsty. He put the glass back and refolded his hand under the coat still draped over one arm, ignoring the player’s accusatory glare. Why had he thought those eyes were warm and humorous? They were positively wolf-like.

He tried to pay attention to the exact score, really he did. But how was he supposed to do that when the player - Marshall, wasn’t it? No. Mitchell - returned to the table. He was paying no attention to his audience of one, instead he prowled the edge of the table, all focus and fluid grace until he had edged ahead in the game.

It was nearly won when he gestured Anders further back so he could squeeze into the space with just enough room between them to take the most difficult shot on the table. Anders had no choice but to back himself up against the wall. He was grateful for the support as he leant his shoulders against the peeling mustard paint, because although the long legs encased in black jeans barely skirting the point of ‘too tight’ made it impossible for him _not_ to drink in the sight of a _very_ attractive arse, it was the way the player moved to take the shot that made Anders’ throat parch. The fabric shifting so the shirt rode up just a few inches to reveal the cut of a sharp hipbone and flash of a red t-shirt under the black.

He missed the shot, but this time there was no accusing glare. He crunched up his nose in self-disgust, which made Anders beam an amused grin directly at him. The player scraped back his curls with one hand before he edged over to where Anders was pressed behind the table, resting his shoulder sideways against the wall.

Anders clutched the coat on his arm a little tighter, grateful for the cover it provided as his cock suddenly pressed harder against the confines of his trousers.

‘Shouldna done that.’ the man said, voice low and close to Anders’ ear. ‘Bad shot choice. I could lose this now.’

Anders resisted the urge to curve into the voice; he kept his eyes fixed on the other player at the table like his life depended on it.

‘You lose, and I get twenty quid. Sounds alright to me.’

‘Prick. I might not pay up on my debts, y’know.’

‘That is not very honourable.’

‘Well. Who said I’m an honourable man?’ The humour was gone from the voice now, replaced with a definite hint of gravel.

Anders felt a flush of heat race up the back of his neck and his prick twitch. Much more of this and his coat would be hiding stains of pre-come like a novice. He didn’t know whether to sigh with relief or disappointment when a curse from the table caused the man to jerk up from the wall with a ‘Fuck. Yeah.’

And so the possibly dishonourable man with the fingerless gloves won. Of course he did.

And Anders had to let go of his half-formed fantasies about how exactly he’d claim repayment if the guy had refused to hand over the cash.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

‘Time, everyone, please!’

The ring of a bell and sudden shout from the barman made Anders jump out of his reverie. Still clutching his coat he waited impatiently for the victor to collect his winnings from his opponent.

‘Luck of the Irish. I can’t bleedin’ believe it. Four-nil. Four-bloody-nil. That’s fifty quid tonight’s cost me. The missus will skin me alive.’ The opponent muttered good-naturedly as he gave Anders a slap on the back on his way out. ‘Pay the man and get away quick while you still can, that’s my advice mate.’ he called over his shoulder.

An older barman, most likely the Publican, stood crouched through the low doorway. ‘More like the luck of the devil.’ He smiled over at the winner - now definitely confirmed as Mitchell by the scoreline - and with no attempt at subtlety jerked his head in Anders’ direction.

‘Wanting a lock-in tonight?’ he asked Mitchell with an unnervingly dark grin.

Mitchell looked up from the notes in his hand. The angles of his face seemed sharper as his brows pulled down and he gave a silent shake of his head.

‘Go on,’ the Publican pressed, ‘it’s no problem you know. The cleaners are coming in the morning anyway, so treat yourself, why not?’

Mitchell pulled himself up straighter. ‘I know you’ve heard what’s happened, Ken. I’m here for a pint and a quiet life, not a lock-in.’

It was not the answer the Publican wanted, that much was evident from the disappointment on his face.

‘Whatever you say, of course, but… look… I understand if you don’t want our company just yet, it’s been a heavy time, but we’re not all like that, yeah? I’ll just shut the doors, leave it on the latch for you, you know.’

‘OK. Thanks Ken.’ Mitchell gave up the argument with a weak smile as the door to the snug was pulled shut and the Publican’s footsteps disappeared on the stone floors.

The man was wanting a quiet life then, fair enough. Luckily Mitchell’s life was of no interest to Anders at all. He fished his wallet out of a pocket, laying the coat on the edge of the pool table.

‘A lock-in? What’s that exactly? Something to do with hiding booze from the law, isn’t it?’ He held out two ten pound notes with a flourish. ‘Here - proof that _I_ , at least, am an honourable man.’

If he expected a jokey reply, it didn’t come. Damn, but he was disappointed. Mitchell had been pushing him before, teasing a bit, hadn’t he? Surely he had chosen the most difficult shot on the table only so he could muscle his way right into Anders’ personal space.

Anders’ pride bristled. Mitchell wasn’t going to get to call the shots.

‘Cheers.’ Mitchell took the notes and stuffed them into his back pocket. ‘Yeah, more or less. The pub’s closed now time’s been called, legally, y’know. But if the doors are locked then it’s not public any more, it’s private, like a party, and those of us locked in can stay and drink. Drink what we want, for as long as we want, and as much as we want.’

‘Sounds a blast. I wouldn’t mind being locked in under those circumstances. Call him back, tell him you definitely want a fucking lock-in.’

Anders couldn’t fathom the haunted look that passed across Mitchell’s face. But it was hungry, that was for sure. Something rekindled low in Anders’ groin.

The pub was silent. Only the late night traffic buzzing outside disturbed an eerie quiet. Anders looked around the room. It was designed for privacy; there were no big windows showcasing them to the street. The only window was on the outside wall, set higher than head height and frosted. The little door leading back to the empty public bar was latched shut. There weren’t even any mirrors in here, which actually was a bit of a pity.

It had been a crap day, and an even crapper six months, so why the fuck not make it better. He’d won another contract tonight and so he was _entitled_ to treat himself to a little reward. Call it a performance bonus.

‘You could give me a chance to win back my twenty pounds.’ Anders stepped closer as Mitchell quirked an eyebrow in surprise.

‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘Because.’

The air shifted. This was his game now and Anders knew how to win. He let his eyes crawl over the hard, angular lines of Mitchell’s body, flickering back up and catching on the full mouth. His eyes lingered as he conjured up tantalising pictures of those lips beneath his own or wrapping around his cock. God, that would be a pretty sight-

‘Ah. Alright.’ Mitchell’s voice had dropped a tone and Anders waited for a second, listening to his breathing. Getting a little ragged. Good. That’s good.

‘And, uh, how do I let you win it back?’

It was cheating, calling on Bragi, but hell, this guy was cheating too. Standing there, looking like that, sounding like that. All messy curls and hot eyes and beautiful hands and tight arse, and, and, gloves. Jesus, those bloody gloves.

 _‘It’s simple.’_ Bragi's voice sounded silky in the quiet of the bar.

Anders moved further into Mitchell’s space, crowding him back against the pool table. He licked his lips and felt a jolt of satisfaction when Mitchell’s eyes fixed on them. Oh yes. Very nice. And Anders hadn’t even laid a finger on him yet. This was going to be a walk in the park.

_‘I bet I can get you to take off those gloves and rings. And when you do, you owe me twenty quid.’_

A smile turned up the corner of Mitchell’s mouth, and he leaned forward and down, just a fraction, but it was enough for Anders to feel the breath ghosting over his lips.

‘Tell me again, why would I want to take off my gloves and hand over twenty quid, exactly?’

Mitchell wanted him, one look at his dilating pupils was enough for Anders to know that, but apparently Bragi would have to work a bit harder to move things along here. Beads of sweat started to gather at the dip of his throat as he went in for the kill with a smile.

 _‘Because they’ll only get in the way, of course. Because after you’ve taken off those boots and jeans and boxers - are they boxers? I digress - and you’re hard and dripping, and bent over this pool table, you’ll want to suck your fingers one by one until they’re slick enough to slide deep into your arse as you open yourself up for me.’_ Anders’ grin revealed his dimples at full wattage. _‘Deep. All the way to the knuckle.’_

A silence hung in the air. Anders searched Mitchell’s face to see a wash of lust quickly replaced by a lean, predatory look which sent a wave of heat up his spine.

‘I see. So I’m going to strip for you and put on a show and you’re going to fuck me. On the pool table. And then I’m going to give you twenty quid.’

 _This isn’t exactly going to plan_ , was the last thought Anders’ mind registered before he felt Mitchell’s fingertips reaching under his shirt and splaying across the over-heated skin of his stomach, and he was slowly walked backwards until there was the scratch of the mustard wall behind his shoulders. He was going to say something, something _important_ , something about this definitely _not_ being what Bragi had said, something about how the _fuck_ was this happening, something about the fingers feeling weirdly _cool_ despite the manky gloves - but it was all lost when he felt a thigh slide between his legs. For the first time he was acutely aware of Mitchell’s extra height pressing against him.

‘I’m sorry, but no. The gloves are staying on. Everything’s staying on.’

Anders was about to summon Bragi for a vigorous disagreement on the matter when Mitchell’s hips began rotating in small circles, the hard line of his cock catching against Anders’ own growing erection, drawing out quickening breaths.

This time it was Mitchell who smiled. ‘Don’t worry, baby. You’ll come. I promise.’

Before there was any time to protest against that turn of phrase, Mitchell pulled one hand away from following the twitching muscles of Anders’ abdomen and brought a thumb up to trace instead across his lower lip. The touch was so soft and intimate Anders felt light-headed from a sudden rush of need flooding his senses. He caught hold of Mitchell’s wrist, feeling the scratch of rough wool against his fingers as he held the hand steady, biting gently across the pad of the thumb before flicking the tip of his tongue out to lave over it. When he gripped the wrist tighter and started to suck the thumb into his mouth, the involuntary moan it shook from Mitchell made him smile around the task.

‘Jesus, your mouth…’ Mitchell pulled his hand away and dropped it to grip at Anders’ hip, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to the skin below Anders’ ear before spreading a trail of hot open mouthed kisses across his neck. Anders arched in encouragement when he felt the mouth lapping against the beat of his pulse, until the lips sealed and sucked at the now perspiring skin, while a tongue flicked over the beating rhythm starting to race faster and faster.

Anders reached down between them, edging Mitchell’s hips away so he could search for the flies of the jeans. When he cupped a hand around the bulge he could feel the cock swell further even through the denim. Anders’ fingers tensed around it, before reaching for the button. Mitchell pulled back from marking his neck with a punched out sound. Anders thought it was a ‘no’, but that didn’t make any sense, not when Mitchell was still grinding his erection against the heel of Anders’ palm. He kept his hand still.

‘You OK?’ He managed to breathe against Mitchell’s ear where his forehead had rested against Anders shoulder.

Mitchell stopped rotating his hips and looked straight at Anders; right at him. Anders held his breath, waiting, until Mitchell gave a sharp nod.

‘Yeah, oh Christ, yes.’

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Anders was fixed for a moment, watching flecks of green and amber light dance around the edges of the dark eyes. Finally he blinked and brought his hand back up to run along Mitchell’s jaw, barely brushing against the stubble. He didn’t move forward yet his whole body seemed to lean up to capture Mitchell’s lips with his own.

Before Anders could translate the desire into reality and bridge the last inches between them, Mitchell took half a step back. The growl of protest turned into an embarrassing yelp as Mitchell dropped suddenly to his knees.

Anders felt the press of his nose into the skin low on his belly where the shirt was still rucked up, and was lost when he felt the puff of breath.

Mitchell laughed slow and low against the skin, before tracing the line of the waistband with his tongue and dipping just underneath, almost touching the tip of Anders’ straining prick, but not quite.

Bastard.

Anders clamped his mouth shut. He would _not_ voice the words racing through his mind, mostly made up of: please, oh fuck, please, just… please. He could feel the curve of Mitchell’s smile tickling the hairs that reached down towards his crotch.

The fucking bastard.

Mitchell nosed against the zip, provoking an aborted jerk of the hips, before slowly tugging it down and slipping the button open. The trousers slid down just enough for him to suck at the patch of pre-come dampening the cotton. Then he was stretching his mouth over the head of Anders’ cock and tracing along the ridge through the material with his tongue.

Anders felt the crack as his head hit the wall behind him.

There was a prickle of wool and cold bite of silver brushing across his groin and thighs as fingers pushed the trousers to his knees, and then tugged the briefs down to join them. He shut his eyes to concentrate on the sensation as firm fingers urged his cock forward, giving it one slow stroke before a tongue licked over the tip.

He tried not to snap his hips forward as the lust curled tight and hot at the bottom of his spine, but it was a losing battle when Mitchell held the base of his prick with cool fingers and slid the crown over the line of his closed lips, teasing his mouth back and forth, barely parting his lips to blow cool air across the slit until Anders was fighting hard not to reach out and simply take what he wanted. Needed.

Anders buried his hands into Mitchell’s hair, twisting at the curls sliding over his fingers, pulling his nails across the scalp and dragging a low growl from Mitchell’s throat. He opened his eyes.

The man looked so fucking gorgeous on his knees; dark curls messier around his face and eyes almost black with want. Mitchell licked his top lip and planted the tenderest kiss just under the head, before giving a fierce _suck_ at the same sensitive spot - and it was all Anders could do not to come on the spot.

Taking mercy at last, Mitchell parted his lips and Anders sighed as his cock was drawn in. He worked his way down the shaft, tongue pulsing against the vein, until Anders felt the head brush at the back of Mitchell's throat. It was tight and hot and too much and he curled over Mitchell’s body, tangling his fingers deeper into his hair.

‘Ah, fuck. What you do… I just…’ He stopped before the words tumbled out - please, oh god, please, please… Mitchell.

Mitchell hollowed his cheeks as he pulled back. Anders could almost forgive him for taking his glorious mouth away when he smiled up at him, a shaky smile that twisted something in Anders’ gut. His hair-tangled fingers stilled for a moment, and then he began stroking his fingertips in gentle circles, watching as a tightness pinched between Mitchell’s brows started to smooth away.

He could swear Mitchell raised a teasing eyebrow before his head dropped, and his mouth encircled Anders’ prick again and engulfed its length, this time sucking and working it in earnest, while a hand squeezed rhythmically holding the base where his mouth didn’t reach.

‘Jesus, you’re… don’t stop… I can’t…’

His hands tightened on Mitchell’s head, pulling him closer, just a little closer, until Mitchell relaxed his throat and moaned. The vibration shot up Anders’ spine, making his hips stutter. He could feel the pre-come dribbling constantly into Mitchell’s mouth now, and he knew he was going to come so fast and hard it was embarrassing.

He heard the low sound Mitchell made every time the cock nudged at the back of his throat, and Anders' whole body crackled and lit up with jolts of electricity. He was vaguely aware he was moaning now too, but, ah, Jesus, he couldn’t stop.

When Mitchell’s free hand reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently, his orgasm started to race, impossible to stop. He wanted to beg for more, for this to last forever.

‘Oh god, I can’t… any… I’m going to-’

Mitchell released his balls and reached round to cup the curve of his arse and draw him deeper with an invitation to thrust. Christ, he couldn’t-, Mitchell had to breathe soon, surely.... Then fingers slid into his cleft and stroked. His brain emptied, his heartbeat hiccupped, his cock throbbed impossibly harder - and he came down Mitchell’s throat with a shout.

~~~~~~~~~~

Anders didn’t remember sliding to the floor, but he did remember soft words and Mitchell’s arms holding him as he fell through space.

They sat side by side, backs against the peeling wall, still panting softly.

Anders glanced sideways to see Mitchell resting with his head back and eyes closed. He almost reached out to lace his fingers with the still-gloved hands,  suppressing an inexplicable urge to raise them to his lips and kiss along the fingertips and twist his tongue around the silver rings.

But he couldn’t reach out to touch, it felt too… intimate.

‘Next time, I want to be inside you when I come.’ he said instead. ‘But in the meantime,’ he tucked his fingers against the zip of Mitchell’s jeans and rested his palm against the bulge still evident, ‘can I give you a hand with this? Or any other part of me you think might help.’

Mitchell’s lips curled up into a smile, but when he tilted his head to look at Anders his eyes were tired and sad.

‘Thanks, but this one was for you. I’m grand. Really. What I need right now is a feckin’ cigarette.’ And he pushed himself away from the floor to dig around in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Something clenched inside Anders as the glow faded rapidly. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to offer himself up twice. Well, fuck him.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Mitchell shut the door of The Bag O’Nails behind them, taking a drag on his cigarette, Anders looked down the street to see three taxis sitting at the taxi rank.

‘Would you bloody believe it. Anyway, d’you want to share a ride?’ he asked.

‘Nah, my car’s just there. But, um…’

Anders winced when he saw the clapped out old car under the streetlamp. Like Mitchell it was hardly what you’d call a classic, and certainly no pristine vintage Mercedes worth the time and trouble. Anders waited for the next line to follow - you could come back to my place, or, I could give you a lift home - but it didn’t come.

Instead he watched Mitchell reach into the back pocket of his jeans and pull out two crumpled ten pound notes.

‘This is yours really, it’ll shout you the taxi fare.’

Anders resisted the temptation to punch the man in the face.

‘I think you’ll find you won it fair and square.’ he gritted out. ‘Give it to your housemate, she needs a coat. You should take better care of Annie, the poor girl will freeze walking around in that cardie. Anyway. Take care Mitchell, see you round.’

It gave him grim but fleeting satisfaction to see the shock in Mitchell’s eyes.

The walk to the taxi left Anders feeling shaky and off kilter. As he sat back in the rear seat and gave his address he realised he hadn’t bothered to call on Bragi again to help him out in there. Because Bragi had spectacularly failed to even get the man to take his gloves off - and how the fuck was that possible?

As the taxi pulled away he allowed himself a glance backwards.

Mitchell was long gone. It didn’t matter really, because he could still recall the last look on his face before he’d turned his back on him. It wasn’t just that he’d suddenly looked so much younger, though he had. It was because he’d looked so vulnerable.

And that was the look Anders dreamt about when the glass of vodka dropped from his hand and onto the sofa in the early dawn and he slept at last.

-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ This is the result of being challenged to write My First Ever Smut, and being offered bonus points for Mitchell keeping his gloves on. I took the bonus very, very seriously ;) ~
> 
> It was supposed to end here. But character motivation and little plot bunnies have started bouncing around under the pool table, and so there may be more.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, kudos'd or commented. Much appreciated xx
> 
> Obviously I do not own Being Human or The Almighty Johnsons, and as for what I've done to their wonderful characters, as Mitchell would say "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry". I promise to give them back unharmed. Mostly.
> 
>  
> 
> ~ for solarlotus ~  
> 


	3. Amazon, Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Mitchell spend time not thinking about The Bag O'Nails, because of course there's no unfinished business between them. 
> 
> At least that's what they've been trying to tell themselves ever since - and failing miserably, but for very different reasons.

There was nothing Mitchell would ever want to change about Annie, his and George's Annie, his friend. To him, she was the heartbeat at the centre of their strange little pink-walled sanctuary.

Sometimes - more than sometimes, these days - he caught an echoing rhythm flutter through his chest as his fingers wrapped around yet another hot mug handed to him. It didn't even freak him out, not any more. He knew it was only a phantom heartbeat, a ghostly phenomenon which seemed fitting in this house, and so he welcomed the small twist of pain supplied by a confused nervous system. Unlike his mate Patrick, who had screamed into the walls of the trenches every night that his missing leg hurt like fuck and why didn't they just fucking cut the fucking thing the fuck off again. As they'd finally ambulanced Patrick away they'd kept repeating that amputation had saved his life and the pain in his non-existent limb was the body's way of telling him that he was alive, so be stoic, you'll get used to it in time. Stiff upper lip, soldier. Be grateful. Patrick had howled with laughter.

For Mitchell and Annie this warm, living dance of giving and accepting grounded them both. George sort of understood that now, even if he still grumbled loudly as he dumped the shopping bags on the kitchen table about the proportion of the housekeeping spent on bloody Fairy Liquid.

So no, there was nothing Mitchell would ever want to change about Annie.

Except maybe this.

Annie sitting composed and watchful on the edge of his bed, cradling a large mug.

 

'Mornin',' he said. At least he thought he did because to his sleep-fuddled brain it sounded more like a jumbled up grunt and cough mixed with a tepid curse.

'Good morning, Mitchell. George has already left for his shift, and it's half past nine, so, I thought, um, I brought you coffee, but it might be going a bit cold now, I think.'

'Cheers.'

Mitchell hauled himself up onto one elbow without actually opening his eyes and obediently reached a hand out towards the end of the bed. He managed to manoeuvre the mug to his lips to find the coffee sweet and stone cold.

'I could make you another one if it's cold.'

'You don't need to do that, it's fine, really.' He took another sip, just to emphasise the point before hauling himself up to rest stiffly against the wall at the head of his bed, dragging his eyes open. 'Are you okay, Annie?'

'I'm fine! Nina's bought some fairtrade teabags, and something with liquorice in it for George to drink, it smells... really weird.'

'That's grand, but-'

'Though if I put honey in it it might smell less weird, it's worth a try.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Well. Let me think." Annie shifted slightly, making herself more comfortable as if her reply could take some time. 'That's a good question actually, Mitchell, because it's longer than you'd think. I moved in two years and three months ago, and that was over a year before you and George arrived. Can you believe it?'

'Cute. How long have you been here, sitting on my bed, waiting for me to wake up?'

'Oh. That. Not very long.'

'But the coffee's cold.'

'Okaaay. Well. Only since George left for work.'

'He's on the 6am shift this week.'

'Oh alright Mitchell! So I like being here, watching you sleep.'

'Weirdo,' he smirked, but although Annie smiled back, the gesture seemed hesitant.

'You'd know all about weirdos, Mitchell.'

'Fair point.'

Mitchell made a vain attempt to clear a spot on the bedside chair before surrendering and balancing the mug precariously on top of two books, a graphic novel and a magazine which definitely wasn't his. Annie must have brought her own entertainment to while away the hours. He reached forward to take hold of one of her hands; it was comforting to feel its shape rest cool and preternaturally light between his own.

'It's alright. I mean, it's creepy and stalkerish, and that's fine with me. But I thought you'd sort of stopped needing to do this, you haven't done it for months. At least I don't think you have. So is something worrying you?'

She laughed at that.

'What could possibly be worrying me? Oh I don't know. George has been beaten up, Nina's a werewolf, and how long will it be before Hugh notices I've only got one set of clothes and fires me. Actually don't worry about that last one, it could take ages for him to notice. This is a man who wears rugby shirts after all, I don't think fashion is his thing.'

'Might be just as well if he did fire you.'

'Don't be such a bloody pessimist. I'll be fine, it's only working behind the bar so there's this nice big protective wooden barrier in front of me, which should make you happy, and anyway the pub only has about three customers. A week. You're the one who encouraged me to step out of the house again. You've made me want to be brave and live the best of whatever kind of life I've got, so - tough. It's kind of your fault so you'll just have to deal with it.'

'I've accepted I've lost that particular battle. So what is it then? What is worrying you? You know you want to tell me.'

There was a quiet space where a sigh should fit, and then Annie blurted out in a rush, 'Alright. It's the car.'

'Huh?'

Some mornings Mitchell thought it would be better to simply stay in bed and hide, except in this house a closed door meant nothing to Annie on a mission.

'Not just the car, it's you as well.'

"You're gonna have to spell this out for me, Annie."

'Okay.' Annie straightened her back and fixed Mitchell with a determined glare. 'When you got back from The Bag O'Nails the other night there was a dent in the wing of the car. There must have been some kind of accident, but you didn't say anything, so I reckoned you'd run it into a lamp post or something equally stupid and were too embarrassed to admit it. And you've been acting all distracted since then, looking out of the window and checking on where we're going all the time. You even called in sick the next day and you are _never_ sick. And then you just followed me round the house like a lost puppy for the day.'

'I fucking did not. And it was a killer hangover.'

'I've seen you with a hangover, Mitchell,' she shuddered, 'loads of times, and it's not a pretty sight. You were not hungover.'

'It's nothing,' his voice raised a few notes higher. 'Honest, it's nothing.'

Annie lifted her eyebrows to a startling extent.

'Look, okay, if it'll keep you from staring at me all through the night - I'll come clean. I got a bit drunk in the pub after you left, and got talking to this guy, and I thought he might have followed me home. I got paranoid about it, I admit. Clearly he didn't. So I was just being a fucking idiot and you can stop worrying. I have.'

'Aww, Mitchell. Did you think you were irresistible? So irresistible that hot guys from the pub will follow you in the dark through the streets of Totterdown, like the Pied Piper or something?'

'Never said he was hot,' Mitchell mumbled.

'Didn't have to. Vampires can blush, Mitchell, or at least you do. It's sweet.'

'You know that fresh coffee you offered to make me? Now would be a good time.'

Annie ruffled his hair, as if it wasn't sticking up in enough directions already.

'Maybe. One last question - the prang on the car, was it a lamp post?'

'Parking bollard.'

'Prat.'

'Noted. Coffee?'

'I'll put the kettle on. See you in the kitchen.'

And she was gone.

 

Mitchell swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. It was all true. The Bag O'Nails, the guy, the parking bollard, the paranoia. The only bit he had omitted was the sex. Well, that and the fear still coursing through him every time he thought about the man.

It was the same rush of fear and adrenaline that had sent Mitchell straight through a red light as he'd driven away from The Bag O'Nails that night. All he'd wanted to do was get out of sight and gone before the guy had reached the taxi. The old car was a bitch to pull round quickly and then there'd been the distractions of the rain, flashing headlights, and the horn blaring from the bus looming up beside him. He'd clipped the bollard as he pulled the car to the side of the road and stalled the engine. He didn't even notice the collision at the time. He'd been peering back through the condensation and rain obscuring the back window, breathing hard, blood rushing in his ears, convinced there'd be a taxi following him, that the guy would find him, pull up beside him - but the road was empty.

Mitchell had calmed himself, only too aware that being picked up by the police over a failed breathalyser test would be a fucking disaster, especially now Herrick was out of the picture. But all he could think about was Annie. The guy had known her, he'd known her name, made a joke about her clothes, known they lived together, here, in Bristol. A complete stranger, but he'd known Mitchell's name too, and known to call him Mitchell, rather than by his first name, so he couldn't have stolen a look at some official details somehow, somewhere. And the way he'd thrown the names into the conversation, right at the end. Making a point, or a threat. But he definitely wasn't a vampire or a werewolf. It didn't make any sense. None of it did.

Unless-

And this is what kept circling round and round his mind.

Unless it hadn't been the unexpected hook-up he'd thought, simply a bit of almost-human sex with a stranger to make himself feel part of the world again, even if only for a few minutes.

Unless the gorgeous stranger had known exactly who and what Mitchell is.

Unless the pissed-off guy with the unexpected dimples had been using him. Using him to get to Annie.

Unless the hot man with the cool blue eyes wasn't at all what he'd seemed.

Unless he'd been there for a reason. 

 _He'd been sent_.

~~~~~~

 

Anders squinted at the wreckage at the side of his bed. The suit would have to go to the dry cleaners again, the two tied-off condoms would need to go in the bin although he couldn't be arsed to bend over far enough to pick them up and toss them in right now, and the empty vodka bottle should be recycled, though the dregs seeped into the carpet would need a good scrub. Why did the Brits have this thing about carpets? Fucking impractical. Fine. He was in no mood to do the houseproud thing. Dawnsie could sort it, no worries.

And right on cue, Dawn's voice sounded sharp down the corridor.

'Anders, who's... I don't know how to say it, Ain-g... A-eee-ng...? You're gonna have to help me out here. I don't want to pronounce it wrong if I phone. You've spelt it A-E-N-G-U-S. At least I think you have, because it looks like O-I-N-G- on this page. God, but these notes are a mess. This one looks like it says Cernunnos - what the hell is that supposed to be, must be a company name, right?'

Anders leaned against the doorjamb, watching Dawn hovering over his laptop, pulling printouts and scribbled papers into a pile before they toppled off the edge of the coffee table. She turned, holding up a page of A4 along with a quizzical raised eyebrow.

'Not that I'm complaining, but why a picture of a gorgeous naked guy with really great hair, and not only on his head, and antlers. And more importantly, where can I get one?'

'D'you wanna call Ty, Dawn, get in a little sexy skype time before work, because I can sense you are a woman in great need and, as you know, your needs are important to me. Can't have brother letting the Johnson name down so that you get the hots for horny antler-boy instead.'

'Huh. I'm not the one printing off drawings straight from a teenager's over-heated fantasies, Anders. This must be the strangest job you've ever taken on. Who's it for?'

'I'll tell you later. It'll keep, and yeah, it's all pretty strange, but then that's Bristol for you.'

Before Dawn could start another spirited defence of the city she adored, Anders took the page from her hand, whispering ' _sorry, he's all mine_ ' as he dropped onto the sofa and pulled the computer towards him.

'Dawn, top priority. Coffee please.'

'Yes, oh master,' she muttered, calling behind her as she headed towards the kitchen. 'Oh, before I forget. The DVLA called, he said they wouldn't check a licence plate number for you and give you an address however weirdly you talked down the phone at them about how much they really _really_ wanted to do this for you, and that is final. Tell me you didn't try to bribe them or something.'

Shit. Dead ends everywhere. He was running out of ideas, apart from his best one. It had to work. He'd wined and dined and talked and screwed Jessica for three nights now, and it had been great fun. Especially last night when she'd brought the handcuffs. Actual, police-issue handcuffs. They had been hot, and extremely hard - as had he.

Better still, Jess appeared to be a woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted and wouldn't back off until she'd got it. Anders had realised this when she'd run her fingers along the back of his neck in the bar and demanded a pint of IPA. He hadn't a fucking clue who she was, but he'd got her the pint, and then a shot, and then agreed to her polite request that could they go back to her flat and shag now please because she had to be at the station by 8 in the morning and she didn't want to still be looking at his ugly mug over breakfast. Turned out she was tenacious and extremely thorough in all things. It wasn't quite what he'd had in mind when he'd tried his luck at The Bay Horse based on the sole premise it was next door to Bridewell Police Station. He'd expected to Bragi some grumpy old desk officer over a burger and chips, but instead he'd had a nice ride, and Bragi had only been needed to suggest Jess did a little desk research in her lunch hours.

He scanned the emails downloading into his inbox, and... Bingo. It was almost a pity Jess had told him three nights was getting way too serious for her, so let's call it a day, but in compensation she'd brought the cuffs, and did he want her to put her uniform back on for a bit?

 

The email was all business.

Mostly.

_Hello Dimples,_

_\- no registered owner for car registration 881 HWN._

_\- records indicate this belongs to a 1964 Volvo 121 saloon aka an Amazon._

_\- Examination of CCTV footage outside The Bag O'Nails licensed premises on the night in question failed to locate the vehicle. Incomplete CCTV coverage of the immediate vicinity. Client was identified leaving the premises by the main entrance shortly after 1am, alone, and acting in an unusual manner although not ostensibly inebriated, before walking in a controlled manner to the taxi rank and leaving the vicinity in the back of taxi._

_\- Further examination of footage covering the city centre at that time has identified a dark grey or black Volvo Amazon in collision with a concrete post near the junction of Anchor Road and Lamb's Way. It cannot be confirmed that this is the vehicle in question. The sighted vehicle was traceable until Redcliffe but was subsequently lost._

_\- Unofficially (Anders, that means you can't quote me on this, remember that, you prick) a sighting of the same or similar vehicle has been reported as parked on Guinea Street for a few hours yesterday. Unconfirmed. (But how many clapped out old Amazons can there be out there polluting Bristol. You owe me one big fucking favour for all this, Anders, my eyes hurt.)_

_\- I will keep my promise to delete and forget this correspondence and all related conversations as soon as I've pressed send and I realise that this is very, very important to you and therefore to me as well. (Now my head hurts too, this is weird. I'm definitely going to delete this straight away.)_

_Det. Const. J. Fletcher._

_p.s. keep the cuffs, it would be cruel and unusual punishment to take them away from my favourite grateful pervert. Drink sometime?_

_Message ends._

 ~~~~~~

 

Anders felt a slight tug of embarrassment as he started to kerb-crawl round Guinea Street for the third time in two days. _It is research, not stalking_ , he repeated in his head on a loop. Though admittedly he had jerked off in the shower again this morning to thoughts of dark curls twisting over his fingers as a tongue pulsed over his cock before those lush, fuckable lips drew him in deep. Christ, but he'd even fantasised about the scratch of manky woollen gloves stroking his cheek. How sick was that.

 _Not stalking, just getting to know my way round the city_. He was concentrating so hard on this thought he almost missed him.

Not the car.

Him.

Leaning against the stone wall outside the hospital gates, half in shadow, half bathed in weak autumn sunlight, head tilted back, eyes closed and a cigarette hanging from those lips. It was just fucking rude of him to be that sexy and suddenly, achingly unattainable.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, solarlotus. You know why :)


	4. Be careful what you wish for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ because you might receive it. Right, Anders?

Anders slammed the Merc's door shut with a string of curses loud enough to make the woman pushing a double buggy downhill swing round. She faced him with a fierce glare from behind her glasses.

'You'll get a ticket, parking there,' she snapped, gesturing at the double yellow lines peeking out from under the wheels. He shrugged. 'You're going to block the emergency vehicles,' she continued to his back as he turned on his heel. Her raised voice followed him round the corner, 'and it'll serve you fucking right, you rude bloody prick.'

 _It'll join all the others on Dawn's desk, then_ , he thought, like it was _his_ problem the city was a parking basket-case.

By the time he got to the hospital gates there were plenty of blue scrubs huddled against the wind, coughing and smoking like chimneys, but there was no sign of the one he wanted. Not that this was going to be a problem anymore. Not at all.

Knowledge was power after all, and Anders liked to think a little abuse of power wasn't going to hurt anyone.

~~~~~~

'Look at this place, it's a busy evening. Is it always like this?' Anders rested his arms over the desk and leaned forward to catch the receptionist's eye. 'You must be knackered. Would you like me to get you a coffee?' He glanced down at the name tag, making a show of it. 'Susie. I like that, it's... charming.'

If he expected a grateful smile, it only took a withering look to show how badly he'd misread Susie. There was nothing she hadn't seen in this place and stupidly flirtatious guys who fancied their chances were the most time-wasting irritants of all.

'Good evening. How can I help you, sir?'

'You're very kind, Susie. I'm looking for someone, it's kind of an emergency.'

'You'll be needing Admissions. If you follow the green line on the floor-'

'Actually, it's a member of staff I'm after. It's a family emergency. If you could be kind enough to take a little peek and look up his Ward, and better still his phone number and home address for me, then I can be out of your hair right away.'

The dimples had zero impact.

'I'm sorry, sir, but you must know that it is not possible for anyone in the hospital to divulge personal information like this about a member of staff. I'm afraid Iwill need to ask you to leave the desk, sir.'

' _Of course, I understand, Susie, and I admire you for being so conscientious,'_  Bragi smiled, ' _but it is an emergency and I know you'd want to help. Because this is no ordinary colleague, you see.He's gorgeous and hot and I really need to see him right now. Tonight. It'll only take you a second to look and there's no harm done, only good things for him, really great things, I promise. You could even page him for me. You'd like to do that because you're a good friend and you'd love to help him have the best fucking night of his life, if you know what I mean.'_

Susie nodded.

'Name?'

' _I only know his first name. Mitchell. He's Irish if that helps.'_

Susie's eyes widened a fraction. Of course she knew who he was looking for. Anders veiled a smirk.

'Oh he's really nice. Quiet, like. It's a shame he doesn't ever hang out with the rest of us, not since that awful night when Becca was hurt, poor guy. Except for George, of course, though that's different because it's George. But he's so lovely to everyone. Such a sweet guy. I'm really sorry, but I can't page him.'

Anders sighed. ' _I think you can, Susie_.'

'He doesn't have a pager, but I could get someone to find him. Just a sec.'

As Susie turned to the computer screen Anders rolled his eyes; so there were no pagers for doctors in this place, how very decrepit and Victorian. Susie scrolled through a few pages before picking up a phone and then smiling back at Anders.

'I've found him, I'll just call him down. You can grab a coffee over there if you like because it might take him a while. Gina says there's a sea of green puke to deal with first.'

Anders shuddered. ' _And that's why I'd be a crap doctor - all the sick people being sick and shit. Thank you, Susie. Mitchell says thanks too_.'

~~~~~~

Anders nursed a second plastic cup of 'coffee' as he half-heartedly kept scanning the foyer and so he didn't hear the footsteps come to a halt behind him. There was a silent moment before-

'Follow me. Now.'

The voice was deeper than he remembered. Harder.

When he looked up all thoughts of a teasing hello and quick blow job in the car park before a delicious night wrapped in black silk sheets disappeared with a blast of hospital disinfectant.

Mitchell was taller than he'd remembered too, and more imposing with his arms crossed and brows drawn into a dark line.

'Um,' he stood. 'Err, hello Mit-'

'You heard.'

And Mitchell strode away, leaving Anders to grab his wallet and half-jog after him. His mind was frustratingly blank as he settled in a step behind Mitchell who wound his way through labyrinthine corridors and up and down flights of stairs.

'Very David Lynch,' he muttered.

Mitchell ignored him and turned down a barely-lit corridor where the clanging of pipes and smell of dripping condensation intensified. Finally Mitchell stopped and pushed open a heavy metal door before stepping back and gesturing inside.

Fear hit Anders with the sudden impact of a speeding train. He remembered the flash of the predator he'd felt in Mitchell back in the Bag O'Nails - before his cock had taken charge of his brain. He didn't really know anything about this man other than the sensation of his touch and the warmth of his mouth. But he did know that Bragi couldn't get him out of this. His heart-rate ratcheted up and his muscles tensed as he glanced behind him.

'It's just us.' Mitchell's voice was clenched, the lilt of his accent almost obliterated in the tension. Then he inhaled. Actually fucking inhaled. 'Blood and adrenalin. Can you smell it? You're awash with it. You can run, of course, but it's not worth trying and you know it.' He waved towards the room again. 'Fight or flight, huh? What a feckin' cliché. How about we try something else. We talk.'

Anders took a shuddering breath, then nodded. 'Talking is something I can do. Shall we?'

He stepped into the room and tried not to groan as the door echoed shut behind them.

For a moment they both stood still, either side of a solitary metal chair left in the middle of the room, not looking at each other, surrounded by grey stone walls and the weak light from a high window and a failing fluorescent bulb. The overpowering smell of antiseptic and damp made Anders cough, and the stalemate was broken.

'Stand still.'

Mitchell stepped towards Anders, then started to run his hands over the front of his jacket, fingers unbuttoning and feeling their way.

'Oh so it's like that is it? You barking orders at me and then getting all handsy. Kinky bastard. You only had to ask, dipshit.'

Anders gave a deliberate little jerk of his hips when Mitchell's hands felt down his sides and traced under his belt and around the waistband of his trousers.

'I know what you're looking for, honey, and you're not looking in the right place yet.'

He couldn't smother an intake of breath as Mitchell started to kneel down in front of him, only to run his hands around Anders' calves before standing up again. When he looked up at Mitchell's face to see lush lips pulled into a thin line, the sensations and images which had flashed into his mind seeing Mitchell on his knees again evaporated in an instant.

'What are you doing, Mitchell? I don't deserve this.'

Mitchell stepped back.

'I needed to check. That's all.'

'Check what?'

'For weapons.'

'Fucking hell, man. What do you think I've got in my pockets - a gun, a machete, hand grenade - I could just be pleased to see you, you know.'

'It's not hard to hide a stake. This I know.'

'A what? Look, Mitchell. This is crazy. I just wanted to see you again. That's it. We had fun - _I_ had fun. And I just, Christ, do I have to spell it out? Instead you take me down here like it's a scene straight out of the fucking Elephant Man or something, so is it any bloody surprise I might be a little bit creeped out. Are we going to talk then?'

There was a beat before Mitchell started to circle round the chair, rings sounding unnaturally loud as they clinked and rang as his hand stroked across the metal back. Anders waited.

'Did you know him?' Mitchell asked, like he was making casual small talk.

'Know who?' Anders couldn't get his bearings. This whole situation began to unnerve him badly.

'Joseph Merrick. They called him the Elephant Man.'

'What are you- Jesus. That was, like over a hundred years ago. Just 'cause I've seen the movie and it was in a hospital with corridors and stairs exactly like... God. Why am I even saying this...?'

Anders was suddenly hit with the idea that despite the scrubs perhaps Mitchell wasn't staff at all - perhaps he was an in-patient and Susie had got him out of the secure ward and it was all Bragi's fault. He took a deep breath.

'No. I did not know him, and it was John Merrick, so neither did you.'

'He was Joseph, but seeing as pretty much everyone was called John a hundred years ago it was an easy enough mistake to make. No, I didn't know him either. I just knew someone who did.'

Anders watched him carefully, saying nothing because what was there to say, except to ask Mitchell what the fuck was he on about, and Anders didn't fancy his chances with that. Unless-

Anders tried to recall his notes from the other day, all the hours he'd spent trying to get hold of Olaf who had conveniently gone awol leaving him following a trail of increasingly obscure websites, and ignoring all the messages from Ty who demanded to know what the hell kind of pr contract required Dawn to check pictures of naked antler-guys. It was giving her some extremely alarming ideas.

'How did you find me?'

Mitchell's voice was sharp as it cut into Anders' thoughts. This was no longer crazy small talk.

'I have contacts.'

Mitchell snorted. 'Exactly. Why did you find me? Who are you? Who sent you?'

'This is stupid. You're a betting man. So, cards on the table. My name is Anders. Anders Johnson. My business brought me here, to Bristol, from New Zealand in case you haven't guessed yet, so I wasn't exactly 'sent' and believe me the sooner I get away from this shithole the better. Now, do you want me to sit in the chair so you can shine a light in my eyes and beat me up? Because it won't change anything. That's all there is to say.'

For a second it looked as if Mitchell was seriously considering doing just that. Instead he sat on the chair himself, crossing his arms and stretching his legs out in front of him. Despite standing over him and starting to seethe with anger, Anders felt he was somehow still at a disadvantage.

Mitchell finally looked him straight in the eye.

'That's not all there is. You know it and I know it. We agreed to talk, so - talk. Who are you really?'

Anders moved away, keeping a wary eye on Mitchell who didn't move a muscle. He stayed coiled like a snake, or a panther ready to pounce. Anders lent his back against the stone wall, getting used to the assault on his senses from the damp with a hint of iron filings in the air. He stayed long enough to feel the cold begin to seep through to his shirt, setting off sparks where it reached his over-warm skin. It was chilled in here, so why the hell was he heating up as if an ember had begun to smoulder deep inside.

This situation was out of control, and getting weirder by the second. Anders pulled back as much focus as his thought processes could manage under the onslaught. Even without Bragi, talking was his only ticket out of this. Mike was going to kill him, but - what the fuck.

'Fancy a bet?' he said.

Oh yes, Mike was going to kill him, but right now telling the truth seemed a far safer bet than taking a chance on Mitchell letting him walk out of this dungeon in one piece.

~~~~~~

Mitchell dropped his hands to grab the sides of the chair.

He didn't fancy a bet.

In fact he was barely holding it together at all. This whole situation was toxic and out of control and he didn't have a fucking clue what to do about it. He'd been coasting on a wave of fear since the moment he'd come up behind the man holding the coffee and recognised the curl of his hair and the curve of his neck. But he knew he had to get a grip somehow, otherwise he'd do some serious damage to the man in front of him before finding out where the threat was coming from. He couldn't keep the household safe if he didn't know what lay behind this. Annie deserved better.

He was trying not to look the guy - Anders - in the eye. The pulse of blood rushing through veins and the panic in every cell was pulling at Mitchell, and he wouldn't take the risk that his own body could betray him at any second. Whether that was by grabbing the man by the neck and kissing him or by ripping him open, he simply couldn't take the risk. Don't get close. Don't get scared. Don't get angry. Listen. Listen to what he says, he'll let something slip, they always do. Get an answer. For Annie. His hands tightened until the metal of his rings started to cut into his fingers. The pain grounded him again.

'Another bet? So you think you can win this time? Okay, I'm listening. What do you propose, Johnson?'

'That I can name your god, and if I do I walk out of here safe and well.'

Mitchell wasn't expecting to laugh, but it seemed the world could still surprise him.

'You, my friend, are crazy, but go ahead. I'm listening.'

He saw Anders relax slightly and straighten up from the wall.

'It wasn't that difficult to work out, seeing as my god had no effect on you at all. But you're not a vessel for any Norse god, Bragi's sure about that and if you wereyou'd be talking to me about it by now anyway. Bragi - he's my god, I'll tell you all about him over a pint - knows you're different and is being fuck-all help with this. He can be such a bastard. You have no idea.'

Mitchell stared at Anders. Gods and vessels. He'd never heard the like. When there was no response, Anders ploughed on.

'So, my guesses. You're not Norse, but you're definitely Celtic. So to start - you're a vessel for Aengus?'

'You expect me to listen to this shit?'

'Woah. Okay. I didn't mean to offend. I thought he was a pretty good match for you. But moving on - Cernunnos?'

'The bet's off.'

'I'm right then? I bloody knew it. It's the whole hair and fertility and testosterone deal. I guess the antlers are optional these days, but...'

'I said, bet's off. And you should really stop lying to me now because you are not helping yourself with this shit.'

Mitchell's hands let go of the chair.

'I was going to check it all with Olaf - he's Baldr's vessel and should be giving me some fucking guidance on this stuff, but he's a prick and gone missing, but I reckon if there're Norse gods of course there's gotta be Celtic ones too over here. It's the only logical explanation, otherwise you'd have been taking off your clothes in the pub before I'd even had the chance to-'

Mitchell uncoiled at speed and felt a jolt of satisfaction when his fist connected with Anders' jaw. As Anders jerked backwards Mitchell's arm slammed across his neck, holding him upright and pinning him back against the stone wall with a crack.

'I've changed my mind. Talking really isn't going to work, is it? Not with a fucking liar like you.'

He watched Anders' eyes widen in shock and panic as his own scorched pitch black.

'You going to tell me the truth now? Because neither you nor whoever sent you is ever going to get the chance to hurt my friends. Never. I promise you that. Whatever it takes, Johnson. You're going to tell me the truth.'

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the giggles, solarlotus.


	5. Gods and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threats, fears and libraries.

Anders stared back into eyes black as pitch and felt the world lurch under his feet. He'd been right to be afraid, but now it was too late. Much too late. He was going to die in this fetid dungeon only metres away from hundreds of people who could save his life and no-one would ever find his bones. Not even Mike, however hard he tried; it would be too late because Anders would already be rotting away in this Bristol shithole.

Everything he knew, all those long, sweet moments of smug superiority that he, Anders Johnson, knew more about the secret parts of the universe than anyone he met, cracked apart.

He cringed back, scraping the skin of his shoulders against the stone as he tried to pull away. Christ, even an inch away would be better than this. He jerked a knee up sharply, hoping to make contact, but Mitchell was angled away. He began to flail then. Kicking out, trying to get strength into cramped punches. He felt the material of his shirt catch and tear on sharp edges, but there was no respite. The arm across his neck held his head fixed and he watched with sick fascination as the oil-slick black slid away.

 _Bragi, speak, just say something, anything for fuck's sake_ , Anders thought. As he struggled to pull in a breath, the corner of Mitchell's mouth flicked a brief, hard smile, and then with a slow blink of eyelids the eyes washed black again.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ," Anders choked out. He screwed his eyes shut and waited, the sickness churning in his gut in hot waves. Mitchell's breath ghosted next to his ear.

"Not sure demons like you should blaspheme so casually," Mitchell's voice was quiet and conversational. Despite himself, Anders strained to listen. "The last time I was in this room a few weeks ago it was full of fresh body parts. Guts everywhere. A dismembered head is fuckin' heavy, you know. You won't have seen anything about it in the papers though. I guess that tells you all you need to know."

Anders felt the fight start to seep out of his tensed muscles and the weight of Mitchell's arm released a little from his neck, enabling him to exhale with a rasp. There was one last roll of the dice left in him. Bragi was a god, and if his power lay in words then Anders was going to use every last one, or what was the point of any of this crap.

" _Mitchell. You can let me go now. You don't want to do this. I owe you a blow job, remember, or a fuck, or-,"_ Bragi's words ground out, a wave of heat searing up his spine, mind racing, looking for any way out.

Mitchell continued as if Anders had said nothing at all, voice turning strained.

"Picking up the bits is easier than cleaning up all the blood and piss, though. Takes bloody ages, if you'll pardon the pun. So many bedsheets wasted. I had to incinerate the mop afterwards too. That took some explaining to the ward sister, she hates authorising a new mop, it upsets her for weeks. I'm not sure she's forgiven me yet. Cutbacks, y'know."

The scent of iron filings and disinfectant filled his senses again as Anders breathed more deeply. Now he knew why. And he was going to be next. A god, snuffed out as just the latest victim of a beautiful serial killer high on some terrifying cornea-altering substance and wallowing in it.

"My name is Anders Johnson. I've got three brothers and a wonderful friend called Dawn," his croaky voice broke further, "and she'll miss me. I know she will. And I haven't lied to you. Tell me what you want me to say. I'll say it. Or Bragi can say it for you if you like. When Bragi speaks I can bend people to my will. You'd like that, it could be useful. I could be so fucking useful. I could.... Just think, I can bend people to your will, Mitchell-"

"Shut up."

Anders didn't open his eyes when Mitchell's arm fell away. He didn't move.

"... I can help you, you see. Whatever you want me to say. I haven't lied to you. I haven't lied. I-"

"Please, stop."

"I just... I just wanted to... see... see you again.... That's it. That's all of it."

The throbbing heat in his head was too much, he was going to pass out and then it would all be over anyway. Anders slumped down the wall, dropping his head into his hands while he waited for Mitchell to finish the job.

Instead there was silence.

Anders waited, sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades, eyes shut so he didn't have to look into the black depths again.

Eventually -

"I don't understand. Why don't you fight back?" Mitchell's voice sounded further away. "Why didn't you shift or...." He stopped.

Silence.

"Johnson. That's really your name?"

Anders nodded from behind his hands.

"So, Johnson, if you still want to talk - why did you find me, that first time, in the pub?"

"Um, there were no taxis, it was raining, and I wanted a drink so I went into the pub."

A beat.

"That's it?"

Anders nodded. Mitchell sounded calmer, and further away. He risked dropping his hands and opening his eyes. Mitchell was sitting on the chair, leaning forward and appraising Anders with clear, hazel eyes.

"But you knew my name."

"I heard the girl say it, talking to her friend."

"The girl?"

"Annie, I think, yes, her name was Annie. I don't remember what she called her other friend who was in front of me at the bar. But they were talking about beer money and some weird shit called hobnobs and not making a splash in puddles and-"

"Christ," Mitchell gasped under his breath.

"And then they left and I was going to but you asked me if I wanted a bet first."

"Yes. I did."

Mitchell stood abruptly and took a few strides towards Anders who tensed as Mitchell held out a hand to pull him up.

"You looked like you were gonna pass out for a minute there."

Anders stared at the outstretched hand.

"Might have been something to do with you choking me."

"Nah. That wasn't much of a choke, not really. Come on. S'okay. I won't touch you again, I swear."

Anders kept looking at the hand, the fingers with their heavy silver rings, and shuddered. The hand dropped away. Mitchell sat down next to him an arm's-length away, head back against the wall.

"Feels like we've been here before, sitting together like this, you and me. Different circumstances, obviously," he said.

Anders turned his head in surprise, glancing at the profile of the man beside him.

"You think this is a fucking joke?" he snapped.

Mitchell sighed.

"No, I definitely don't think it's a joke, but I'm ready to listen. So let me get this right, you're Johnson but you're controlled by Bragi, yeah?"

"Not controlled exactly. I'm more like a vessel, he can speak through me, his powers channel through me."

"Uh-huh. And he's Norse?"

"Very. The Norse god of poetry."

Mitchell snorted.

"Fucking filthy poetry that doesn't rhyme if I remember right, but if you say so. I still don't get it, why didn't you fight back? You could have taken me, no problem."

"What? Well. Because I'm a lover not a fighter? I tried to kick you in the balls if that makes you feel any better."

Anders warned himself not to be fooled by Mitchell's laugh. The guy was a bloodypsychopath.

"Thing is," Mitchell said after a few strained minutes,"I want to believe you, but you know I don't. Except for that bit about not being much of a fighter." He stopped, brows pulling into a sharp line as he turned to look Anders in the eye. "But I think I know where to go to check you out, and until then I'm not letting you out of my sight. Let's go, Mr Johnson."

 _Don't piss off the drugged-up psychopath_ , Anders thought, sparing a last glance back at the dark stains on the stone floor before the door clanged shut behind them and cut off the terrifying stench of disinfectant.

~~~~~~

Anders slowed as they approached the amazon parked near the hospital gates and felt the sharp press of Mitchell's fingers digging into the small of his back.

"Keep walking, we're not driving. So you recognise my car too. That's your 'contacts' again huh?" He speeded up, shepherding Anders in front of him and heading towards Prince Street Bridge. "I can tell you're not local, it'll be quicker to walk than spend an hour looking for a parking space."

"We going far?" Anders scanned the streets, hoping for an escape route or a police car, but he could feel Mitchell's proximity close behind him and decided making a run for it couldn't end well. Discretion was definitely the better part of valour.

"Quarter of an hour, less if you stop hanging about."

Anders gestured vaguely towards the clear sky just beginning to darken as dusk approached."Plenty of time for it to start pissing with rain."

He heard a chuckle. "You've been here long enough to know that, then."

Having exhausted all his weather small-talk Anders lapsed into a tense silence punctuated only by Mitchell barking directions ' _go there_ ' ' _turn right_ ' until they found themselves crossing the grass at the corner of College Green. Mitchell stopped them in front of a Victorian gothic stone structure soaring up into turrets and crenellations. The weight of the black leather jacket on his shoulders was irritating the scratches across his back, a continuous reminder of Mitchell's terrifying assault. Not to mention the jacket had seen better days, including plenty of blood spatters no doubt and Anders felt nauseous at the thought. But Mitchell hadn't given him any choice. Instead he'd thrown the jacket at him while he'd hovered beside the lockers trying not to look aghast as Mitchell shrugged himself out of the scrubs and into his clothes - mismatched purple and ubiquitous fingerless gloves included.

The gloves made a grab for Anders' arm, making him flinch, but he was held steady while Mitchell finished a quick call on his mobile.

"He's gonna open the door right now, c'mon, he won't hang about," and Mitchell yanked him unceremoniously past the 'no entry - private' sign on the iron railings. He preferred the stench of urine burning his nose to the memory of disinfectant as he half-stumbled down the steps.

 _Christ, not another dungeon._ Anders felt a swell of panic as the low door jerked open in front of him.

~~~~~~

"Mitchell, my boy! As I live and breathe," there was a throaty chuckle, followed by, "it's been how many months? Oh yes, of course, quickly, quickly."

Anders gaped for a second at the man in front of him, dressed in black robes touching the floor, long white collars with a hint of lace at the neck, and a skull cap perched a little precariously on luxuriant grey locks waving to his shoulders.

"Quickly, please," he repeated and Anders found himself ushered past and into a cramped corridor. He looked back to see Mitchell leaning against the doorframe with a grin plastered across his face.

"I think you might have forgotten something, Father," Mitchell teased.

"My deepest apologies. Come in Mitchell, come in. Have you not used our little tradesman's entrance already? How surprising. I suppose you haven't needed to sneak in after closing hours before. Oh, just a moment," and the man adjusted his necklace, tucking the cross under his collar. "Can't be too careful."

Anders didn't try to hide his surprise when Mitchell ducked in and enveloped their host in a bear hug. "It's been too long, Ambrose. You still secretly brewing up in thecellar?"

"If I am, and I'm confessing to nothing, I'll see if I can tempt you later. I need someone to taste it. It's good to see you, my friend. And who's your companion?" Father Ambrose nodded politely to a dumb-struck Anders.

"This is Johnson. He's a..., he's from New Zealand, he says."

"That's wonderful!" Father Ambrose grabbed at Anders' hand and shook it vigourously. The handshake felt cold and insubstantial, and Anders drew back instinctively, not trusting himself to say more than "Hello."

It didn't disturb the man in the least. "I have never had the pleasure of talking to someone from the Antipodes before, at least, not one who could hear me. I have so much to ask you, but Mitchell sounded perturbed on the telephone, perhaps we can talk later." He turned to Mitchell again. "Let's head up to the sanctuary and we'll see how I can help you two gentlemen. "

~~~~~~

The sanctuary turned out to be a high-vaulted room on the first floor. A glass-domed ceiling soared high above rows of wooden desks bathed in the orange light of old electric bulbs. The walls groaned under the weight of leather and paper, coupled with the warm smell of ancient books.

When Anders stopped gazing upwards he found Father Ambrose resting against one of the reading desks, smiling indulgently.

"Beautiful, aren't they? The most wonderful jewels in the world."

"Father Ambrose has read every one of these books," Mitchell said, his legs stretched out in front of him to rest on one of the desks, until Ambrose raised a gently accusing eyebrow.

"All of them?" Anders swept a hand to encompass the sheer expanse of the claim.

"I have been blessed with time, Master Johnson, thanks to Mitchell, and also with peace and solitude except when the Valkyrie sees fit to disturb me. Although three centuries is barely the blink of an eye in the face of so much knowledge. But _tempus fugit_ , Mitchell, my dear, what is it you wished to ask."

Mitchell fixed clear eyes on Anders.

"I need to know exactly who and what is he," he said.

"Oh. I see. A Divining. It's been a long time since anyone has asked for one of those. Life's so uncomplicated these days. I hear how the classifications are being made. Types 1, 2, and 3. Vampire. Werewolf. Ghost. As if the beauties of the universe are so reduceable. What do you know of him?"

"Ah. Excuse me. I am fucking stood here, you know," Anders had had enough, especially as the threat of evisceration seemed to have receded, "and for your information, I can tell you that you can forget the ghost and vampire shit for a start. And I'm not a mermaid or a mummy or a fucking moomin."

Mitchell ignored him.

"He says he's a god of poetry, believe it or not."

"I _am_ the fucking bollocking god of-"

Ambrose was staring intently at Anders, head bobbing from side to side. "Well this is remarkable, a god in this mortal realm," he breathed.

"Exactly. No such thing," Mitchell spat out, "he gave me a name though, and I wanted you to check it out."

"Okay then Mitchell," Anders crossed his arms in front of him,"if Bragi isn't a god and I'm not his vessel, what the fuck am I?"

"You're a demon."

Anders laughed.

Ambrose wasn't laughing. "Bragi. I haven't heard of a demon going by the name. But he is beautiful enough to be one."

Anders stopped laughing. "Thank you, I'm flattered, I think, but you are both fucking crazy."

"Beautiful and seductive," Mitchell said, ducking his head a little.

"I see. The hallmarks of many a demonic presence. And did your contact begin with carnal relations?" Ambrose asked.

"Um. Kinda." Mitchell might have been blushing, but Anders was too hyped up to notice.

"And were you compelled?"

Anders wasn't going to stand for that. "No he was fucking not. He was very enthusiastically into it. I didn't have to go round 'compelling' him..." his words tailed off, because all of a sudden his protestations started to feel decidedly shaky.

"Mitchell?" Ambrose wasn't even looking at Anders.

"No, I didn't feel that, not at all, but," he rubbed his forehead, "he said he can bend people to his will."

Ambrose finally turned to face Anders, no twinkle left in the quick grey eyes. "And did you try to bend him to your will?"

Anders really didn't want to answer that.

"I'm not into force," he hedged.

"Let me rephrase. Did you try and fail?"

"Maybe. A bit. At the beginning. But after that, definitely not."

Ambrose leant closer, disconcertingly close, eyes flickering around his head. He continued his strange attentions for a few minutes, closing his eyes and humming for a couple of seconds before reaching a chilled hand out to ghost fingers over his cheek. Anders jerked back at the same moment Ambrose stepped away and moved to stand next to Mitchell. They both stared at him. Anders felt a sudden sympathy for butterflies pinned for exhibition.

"I don't see the appropriate disturbance in the aura," Ambrose looked thoughtful. "A demon moving through onto our plane and choosing to stay for more than a brief incursion is a rare creature indeed. It takes such immense trails of energy drawn from behind the door. It is these energies we Diviners read, Mitchell. I began my training at a time of such superstition, so many witch hunts and burnings, but over the centuries we have come to understand that we are working with science, physics not superstition. There _is_ a trace on him. It's faint, but is most certainly demonic. Perhaps this is what you sensed. But it taints him from the outside, it's not the essence of him. Master Johnson is beautiful and he may indeed prove to be cruel, but he has never shape-shifted and he does not come from behind the door. Whatever he is, he's not a demon as we know them. Perhaps we should both listen to what Master Johnson has to say."

Anders was uncomfortable about sharing the Johnson family secrets with a druggy-psychopath and a deluded librarian in fancy-dress, but the ache in his shoulders reminded him not to underestimate the potential for damage Mitchell could inflict. He told as little as he could, concentrating on Bragi and what the god meant to him.

"Come with me," Ambrose said as soon as he finished, "I have an idea."

Anders was led to the far end of the library and told exactly where to stand. Ambrose smiled, "I think this is what you might call my party trick." And then a volume started to move on the second shelf, high up under the vaulted stonework. Anders was incredulous as the book tilted and then plummeted straight down into his hands.

"Never mind what I am, what the fuck are you?" he blurted.

"I did wonder how much you know. I am Ambrose Herbert, a ghost, Master Johnson, and I have been so since 1643, formerly the curate of St Leonard's, poet of this parish, and now and forever the custodian of this wonderful collection." The Father looked over his shoulder to where Mitchell was waiting for them. "He's a good man; you should believe me about this. He is sadly one of our tarnished brethren, but also a man always searching where others retreat. May I make a suggestion?"

Anders' brain hadn't moved on much further than 'a ghost, a fucking ghost', but the evidence of his eyes and the memory of the eerily insubstantial handshake was convincing. "I guess," caution seemed a good idea.

"He likes you. Unfortunately Mitchell can be too easily inclined to like people. This is a breach of my ethics, but I'm going to tell you what I saw - Mitchell has the confused and confusing aura of his kind, too many sharp angles and kaleidoscopic colours to be read by a Diviner. But where there is the residue of humanity this can be more clearly read, and that is where I see his regard for you."

"So wrong, mate. He punched me, then choked me, then told me how he was up for a little dismemberment and then did weird shit with his eyes. If that's how he treats people he likes I wouldn't want to piss him off."

"And my suggestion is - take him home with you. Read that book. Don't let him hide from you. You will both be stronger together, and you will need such strength. Don't be too quick to judgment. He's right to be scared of demons. You would be too if you knew they were coming for those you love."

"I'm not a bloody demon."

"I know that. So does he, but you need to make him believe it, help him trust the instinct that drew him to you in the first place. Of course we believe you to be supernatural, even if in a way we do not understand yet, otherwise how could you be standing here talking to me? Mitchell wants to trust you, he may not realise that, but why else is he here? Consciously or not he is seeking reassurance that you are not what he fears, a danger to his loved ones, so that he does not need to run from you. And from the Divining I have done this evening within your auras I must say a little carnal pleasure would not be a bad thing for either of you."

"Did you just say that out loud, Father?"

"Say what, my son?"

Anders chuckled. "Yeah well, I still don't fancy the dismemberment."

"I think you'll find things are not exactly as he made them seem. Are you a religious man Master Johnson?"

"Please, call me Anders. No, I'm afraid not."

"No apology needed, Anders, neither am I. Never have been if I'm honest." Ambrose reached round the back of his neck and pulled off his crucifix. "Take this. Keep it hidden, out of sight in a pocket or under your shirt or by your bed. If you are threatened in future, see if it will deter the aggressor. I cannot guarantee its success, but a little extra insurance may help your peace of mind. As for Mitchell, his condition and his story are for him to share should he choose to, it is not my place."

"He's not a ghost too, is he?"

"I'm afraid not. Death was less kind to John Mitchell."

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to solarlotus for giggles.


	6. Spiriti et Daemonum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pizza and plasters.  
> Candles and doors.

It seemed like a good idea half an hour ago when they got a taxi from outside the library. Anders' flat wasn't far away and they couldn't wander around Bristol in the rain clutching a centuries' old manuscript. Mitchell had given a sharp shake of the head when Anders asked where he lived, so that wasn't going to be an option, not that Mitchell seemed impressed when they turned up at the ground floor flat in what had once been a spacious Georgian townhouse. He'd stopped on the doorstep and Anders even had to encourage him to step inside, which with hindsight might have been an error, because as the door shut behind them it struck him that Ambrose had fooled him into seeing Mitchell through the Librarian's eyes, as something closer to a friend. Now the man was standing in Anders' living room, prowling around in the middle of his personal space, he felt... misplaced.

Anders placed the book delicately on the dining table. He was bloody exhausted. The weight of leather weighing down on his shoulders felt heavier by the second and he exhaled a huff of relief when he shrugged off the battered old coat Mitchell had foisted on him and dropped it over the arm of a dining chair. He flexed his muscles with a small wince and turned back towards Mitchell.

'So,' he started.

Mitchell's gaze focussed in on him, growing sharper as a furrow appeared between his brows, and an involuntary rush of heat washed over Anders.

'Come here a sec.' Mitchell beckoned him over.

Anders was about to obey when a memory of blackness covering those eyes came back to him. It was like a punch to his chest. How could he know whether whatever the weird-fuck drugs the guy was on had worn off yet and what were the chances of Mitchell going ape-shit and psycho on him again if they hadn't. He looked perfectly normal. Better than normal, actually, much better, standing framed against the fireplace all lean lines and grace. But then he'd looked pretty normal before it had happened earlier too. The heat started to chill.

Anders turned away.

'I need a coffee. Want one?'

He heard Mitchell move and quickened his own pace, positioning himself behind the kitchen island, closer to where the sharpest knives and other weaponry were within reach. He didn't turn when Mitchell followed and stepped up behind him, but the tension ratcheted up in his body. What had Mitchell said? Fight or flight?

'How d'you take it?' he ground out, shocked by how tinny his own voice sounded to his ears. _Breathe_ he told himself, fingers resting on the handle of the drawer where the knives were kept. Would he have time if- Maybe he should- Just in case-

'Shit, Johnson, I'm so sorry.' Mitchell edged back half a step. 'It must hurt like fuck. You got any medical stuff here? Antiseptic?'

'What-?' he must have misheard.

Mitchell gestured vaguely towards him, looking uncomfortable and his eyes slid away.

'Your back. It's cut up some. It's definitely been bleeding.'

He'd forgotten the scrape of the sharp stone edges on his shoulder and back in that shitty dungeon of a basement in the hospital.

Mitchell continued, 'And if your shirt gets stuck where it's ripped it'll be hell to get off without pulling open the cuts. You shouldn't leave it any longer.'

Anders could swear he smelt the damp and disinfectant and terror again. His fingers gripped the drawer handle.

'I could help, if it's too painful, you know, sort of help you if it's stuck...' Mitchell's voice tailed off and his eyes flicked back towards Anders. 'You okay? Johnson? Are you okay?'

'Er, yeah.' Anders heard his voice wobble and how was that even possible on one syllable. He coughed. 'Yeah, I'm just not very good with blood.'

An unfathomable smile raised the corner of Mitchell's mouth.

'Neither am I in a manner of speaking. Look, why don't you go check, and if you need help just give me a shout. I can make the coffee.' 

Though the way he looked the coffee machine up and down was not at all convincing.

It was a relief to hear the lock click into place as he shut the door of the en-suite bathroom behind him. Anders tried to peer over his shoulder and gave the back of his shirt an experimental tug. Mitchell was right, it hurt like fuck. He wondered about getting into the shower where the hot water would soothe the aches in his muscles and maybe help release the shirt from his back, but the idea of being naked only metres from the part-time psycho in his living room made his stomach lurch, and more in a 'puke' than 'turned-on' way. So he was a coward. So what. Better to be that rather than a brave but dismembered corpse. He managed to ease the shirt away, biting down little whelps of pain until it was off. The fresh red specks on top of older dried streaks of blood on the cotton weren't too bad so he wasn't exactly going to bleed to death, but there was no chance of reaching round to check. Anders ran a towel under the warm tap and angled the damp material over his shoulders, leaning forward for a few minutes to at least give the injuries a bit of a cleanup. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed which was way too long to stay hiding in the bathroom. _Pull yourself together, dipshit_ , he mouthed in the mirror, before grabbing a loose t-shirt on his way through the bedroom and going back to face whatever was on the other side of the door.

Mitchell was still standing in the kitchen, leaning his elbows on the surface with a far-away look on his face. He blinked and straightened up.

'I made tea.' He grimaced, pushing a huge mug across towards Anders.'Sorry. It was that or get a degree in engineering to work that thing.'

'That 'thing' is Italian and it's worth more than your car.'

Mitchell chuckled. 'Not hard. How's the back?'

'I'll live, but I'm knackered. I should call you a cab.'

'Sure, but what about the book. What did Ambrose give you?'

Anders sighed. 'Some ancient shit with swirly writing and weird pictures. Does it matter?'

'Ambrose thought it did and that's good enough for me. Show me, please.'

~~~~~~

Father Ambrose rarely allowed himself the pleasure of smugness. Observing human - and inhuman - nature for three and a half centuries had given him plenty of opportunity to admire his own insight and wisdom, but pride was a sin that held no attraction.In fact, most forms of supposed sinfulness weren't high on his list of things he cared about. He'd had enough of those horrors in his early days as a curate, watching how young men and women's eyes dropped when they saw him in his bible-black robes followed by a telltale flush rising in their cheeks. He only wanted to talk, maybe laugh a little. He had no desire to judge and yet they always judged themselves in his presence. The burning memories of accusations and witch-hunts wouldn't leave him if he 'lived' for a thousand years. So when two benefactors had come knocking at St Leonard's church all those centuries ago looking for a custodian, Ambrose had seized the chance and run away to the new-fangled Library in Bristol. He blessed the day, for that was the day he found the love of his life.

He died for that love too, on the terrible day the Royalists descended on Bristol with their looters and fire-pikes and grenades. Ambrose was just another broken body paying the price when a country tears itself to shreds.

But, sometimes, only sometimes, he allowed himself the reward of a warm, smug smile. Lord knows what Master Johnson actually was. Gods-on-earth appeared in his reference books in the same breath as the Loch Ness Monster. Powerful in myth, swirled in legends of glimpses and encounters with otherwise sane and sober individuals, tall tales at the fireside, or the occasional lecture arguing for their existence on a philosophical level, but never proven. Ambrose had learned the hard way that the rules of the universe are never fully known, and, he suspected, more fluid than people would ever understand.

So if Master Johnson was a god-on-earth in some form, Ambrose could work with that. He'd've been blind not to have seen the careful looks Mitchell had made towards him when he was sure Anders wasn't paying attention, and the warm spark behind them was something Ambrose hadn't seen in his friend for a long time. And so if Master Johnson could make dear John Mitchell happy for a moment - or even just get him to enjoy a guilt-free supernatural shag at long last - then it was Ambrose's duty to provide a helping hand.

He smiled. Smugly.

~~~~~~

" _Pseudomonarchia Spiriti et Daemonum_ "

Anders and Mitchell sat on the floor side by side, poring over the pages of the book laid on the coffee table, pizza packaging strewn across the floor.

'Oh for fuck's sake,' Mitchell snorted, 'there's no way even a bunch of demons could contort themselves into that position. I mean. Whoever thought that one up seriously needed to get laid.'

'You have no imagination,' Anders squinted, 'looks like there are at least three extra cocks in there counting the number of bodies attached. Is that, like, normal for demons, because that'd be pretty hot. Or perhaps it was a competition, you know, see who could keep the most people from passing out from boredom in the monastery. Could have been a maths test, I suppose.'

Mitchell laughed and Anders was surprised how much he liked the sound. He reached for the last of the pizza, then licked a smear of tomato sauce slowly from his thumb, waiting until he heard the stifled intake of breath from Mitchell. Gotcha. He moved closer to the table, letting his thigh rub along the side of Mitchell's.'I like this one, though, it's...'

'Likely to break your spine?'

'Likely to blow your head off when you finally come, trust me.' Anders smirked when one of Mitchell's eyebrows shot up, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, 'Trust. Me.'

'Holy mother of...' Mitchell gripped his beer bottle until Anders could see the knuckles turn white.

Anders turned the page with a flourish. 'Wow. Remind me to thank Ambrose because _that,_ my friend, is impossible to unsee and deserves detailed historical re-enactment.'

'Pure poetry, aren't you?'

Mitchell shifted slightly and Anders leant back against the sofa, gingerly resting his back against the soft material, while Mitchell worked through the pages as they changed into a series of indecipherable lists.

The flat had been quiet for some time, punctuated only by the occasional crackle when a page was turned until Mitchell reached the last few pages. Anders twisted to look at Mitchell's profile as he bent his head forward to concentrate on a line drawing in the margins of the text. Perhaps he really was a Celtic god but the rules were different for them and he didn't know it yet. Maybe they didn't come into their powers until they were older. Twenty-five, thirty, maybe. How old was Mitchell? Because, Christ, Anders' fingers itched to touch the wayward curl hanging down over Mitchell's eyes. He remembered the softness of those curls running over his fingers as he'd stroked them while Mitchell lowered his mouth, and the snake of his tongue as he drew Anders' prick deeper -

'What d'you make of this?' Anders jumped but Mitchell didn't notice, he pointed to the illustration. It was a plain black line-drawing surrounded by stylised writing and with none of the gold and colours of the other illuminations on the page. 'It looks like it says something about gods, gods of the north, maybe, but it's so mixed up and I don't remember much Latin, can you get googling for septentrionalis.'

'The fuck! You studied Latin?'

'We all did back then,' Mitchell sounded affronted, 'we might have been poor but that doesn't mean we weren't educated. If anything education mattered even more to people then, it definitely did to my Da.'

'Wow. Glad to hear it about "way back when",' Anders laughed, but Mitchell was following the lines snaking down the margins of the pages.

'It's similar on all these pages. Look, see these patterns.'

Anders edged closer, shoulder brushing against Mitchell's.

'Is that supposed to be a snake, because if it is the artist should have been fired on the spot, I could do better than that pissed. Though I swear that snake has great tits. Anyway, as you've already eaten your body weight in garlic bread and pepperoni, d'you fancy another beer?'

'Thanks.'

Anders felt the loss of contact as he pushed himself up. Perhaps he should have called for that taxi rather than the pizzas after all, because right now he couldn't help himself from missing the contact.

'Find any demons called Bragi then?' he called over, lit by the light from the open fridge door as he fished out two bottles. When he looked up for an answer he saw Mitchell staring at him, before a quick start in his eyes brought him back to reality.

'Uh. No. Nothing. And there's a shit-long list of demons in here.'

'So do you believe me now? Wanna check me for a tail or anything?'

He could swear Mitchell licked his lips. Twice.

'I think I might have noticed that in the pub,' his voice sounded deeper than before and Anders had to strain a little to hear, it was almost a whisper when he added,'I think I believe you, I think I always did, I just didn't trust myself enough to risk it.'

Anders snorted. 'Well that'll teach you to do weird-ass drugs that fuck with your brain and sure as hell will ruin your eyesight. Stick to the good stuff. I can sort you out if you want.'

He sat back down, closer than before, and handed Mitchell a bottle. Mitchell didn't look him in the eye as he took it. 'I am sorry, you know, it was just that... There's stuff going on you don't know about - can't know about, and George has been attacked and Annie's really vulnerable and I panicked. I couldn't risk bringing the nightmares into our house, not even by accident.'

'That's terrible, who'd want to hurt Annie? I mean, I only saw her for a few minutes but it's impossible, why?'

'There was a, a sort of accident and something ended up dead, and-', Mitchell's breath shuddered, 'it's like there's a vacuum now, and there are... people who want revenge, or payback, or chaos, and they don't care who or what gets destroyed along the way, and I need to look out for my friends because they don't understand. And I don't _want_ them to understand because they shouldn't be dragged into this, because once you're complicit...' Mitchell paused, 'it's complicated.'

Anders was staring at him. For the first time he saw the vulnerability again that had struck him as he'd left Mitchell standing in the drizzle outside the Bag O'Nails.

'A sort-of accident?' he prodded, 'and something ended up dead? Where, exactly? In the hospital?'

Mitchell nodded.

'You were responsible for this sort-of accident?'

'Completely.'

'You killed someone in the basement room we were in?'

'No.'

'But-'

'But I should have. It was my responsibility, I should have been the one to do it, but I didn't.'

'So that stuff about clearing up the body parts was a lie to scare me.'

'No. That I did do.' Mitchell looked hollowed out. 'It was the only thing left I could do, I owed him that much.'

'You owed the _something_ that was killed, or the someone who killed it?'

For a second Mitchell's face went so pale Anders thought he was about to throw up.

'Both,' he breathed.

'Father Ambrose told me there was more to it, that you're a good man.'

'Ambrose is my friend and lets this cloud his judgment. You deserve to know that I am not a good man.'

'Well, I know you're a druggy psycho so there's that. He called you one of the "tainted brethren", and before I sell the idea to Dan Brown and make a bloody fortune, I know you're not a ghost and you say you're not a god, though I still think you'd look hot as fuck as naked antler-god, so you're human? Or something else?'

'Something else. You are something else too.'

'Thank you, so I'm told by grateful chicks, all the time. Though,' Anders didn't understand why he kept on talking, 'I know something about a sort-of accident leaving a person dead on the kitchen floor and a body to dispose of. Yeah, it's complicated.'

Mitchell waited, but Anders already regretted his words. "Time to move up to vodka?'

Mitchell ignored the distraction, but didn't push the conversation. 'It's a lot to get my head around. Gods and shit. I thought I'd seen most things, but not that. How does it work? Are you immortal?'

'Don't be an egg. 'Course not. So you finally believe me. Halle-fuckin-lujah. Not that I'm surprised you see the light of my irresistible presence.'

Mitchell huffed. 'Right. Actually it was as soon as Ambrose opened the door, that's when I knew, you couldn't stop staring at him.'

'Did you see those robes? Spooky.'

'Exactly.'

Anders raised his eyebrows.

'You could see him, so you're supernatural, unnatural, but if you had been a demon Ambrose would have sensed something as soon as he shook your hand.'

'Of course I could see him. He's pretty hard to miss what with the dress and all.'

'No. He is pretty hard to see, what with being a ghost and all, but you did. Have you never met a ghost before?'

Anders shook his head. 'None of them in New Zealand, mate. Guess we've both got a lot of catching up to do.'

~~~~~~

Ambrose had never got out of the habit of going to bed and as midnight chimed from across the Green he picked up the Stephen King hardback and walked down the spiral staircase to the long-forgotten storage room which housed a narrow camp bed and a supply of candles. The electric lighting was perfectly functional, but lighting a candle still soothed him as he settled in for a ghoulish night in a fictional beach hut at Duma Key. It was the little things that kept you sane over so many years, he'd learnt, holding on to the echoes of the normal life you had lived, like brewing beer you can't drink and going to bed by candlelight when you don't sleep. Like writing love poems that nobody reads. He struck a match and waited for the expensive smell of beeswax to fill the room. In the morning he would put the book back under 'the best of non-fiction' instead of 'the year's bestsellers you must not miss' and wait with glee for Valerie the Valkyrie to spot it.

It took a long while for him to hear the scrape of the desk on the opposite side of the room shifting an inch, and the low, long sound of breathing.

~~~~~~

'I should go. I'll ask Ambrose tomorrow what he thinks.'

Anders swirled the last of the vodka in his glass, not looking at Mitchell who had managed to stretch himself out on the sofa behind him. 'Yeah,' he agreed, and lent forward to put the glass down on the coffee table, but neither of them moved any further. The hum of traffic outside the window had faded and the room was almost silent.

Anders didn't react when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

'There's blood, you're still bleeding, not much but it's, um, distracting. Why won't you let me put a plaster or something on it?'

He didn't want to face up to the answer to that. Because I'm scared of you? Because I'm scared of your hands on me, on my throat? Because I fucking want you anyway? I want you so bloody much I'm getting hard just from hearing your voice? And does this make me certifiably insane?

'Okay,' he said instead.

~~~~~~

The breaths were inhumanly slow, and Ambrose reached towards his chest, clutching for his crucifix but it wasn't there. Funny, he thought, wasting the necklace on Anders who had nothing to fear and now here he was, left without his only protection. His ability to disappear and relocate to a safe haven was paralysed no matter how hard he willed it. If he flung himself out of the bed and towards the door, could he get out in time? Whatever it was sharing his room seemed to be waiting for something. He could hear the distinct rhythmic scratch of the desk leg on the stone floor matching each exhale of breath. He closed his eyes and listened. Waiting.

~~~~~~

Anders chewed at his bottom lip as Mitchell smoothed a plaster over the jut of his shoulder blade and pulled the hem of the tee back down.

Mitchell was brusque, medical.

'You're fine, thank Christ, some nasty scratches but only one is still bleeding a bit. It'll be healed up in a couple of days. I've put a plaster over it so it's more comfortable for tonight but it doesn't really need it.' He stepped away and reached for his coat from the back of the dining chair. 'Don't worry about the taxi, I'll grab one from the rank.'

'Wait.'

Anders had no idea what to say next. Bragi smirked in the corner of his mind, useless for once.

'Just, wait.'

Mitchell hovered near the door, visibly inching away from him. The man was so bloody unreadable Anders felt his frustration reach boiling point. Which wasn't surprising after Mitchell had stopped Anders from taking his top off and instead had just pulled up the back; and he had kept those manky gloves on despite Anders dropping heavy hints about hygiene and would Mitchell like to take them off before he caught gangrene or something; and he had hardly touched any skin as he'd speedily disinfected the scratches and pressed on the plaster with firm fingers. And despite all that Anders was still so achingly hard it was all he could do not to press the heel of his hand against his crotch to ease some of the tension.

'Just... don't move.'

~~~~~~

Ambrose watched the flame with growing alarm as the candle started to gutter and the circle of light around the narrow bed danced madly. Soon it would snuff out leaving the room pitch dark. He had experienced pain and fear so many times he thought he'd grown a thicker skin, but sitting straight and tense in his own bed he felt his skin crawl and bit back a whimper. Now might be a good time to start believing in the power of prayer again.

The room went black.

~~~~~~

Mitchell didn't move as Anders covered the few paces between them. Anders kept his eyes fixed on Mitchell's, watching the green and amber flecks darken towards chocolate as the pupils started to dilate. He studied the shifting shades as he took the coat from Mitchell's hands and dropped it to the floor. There was no resistance when his fingers grasped the scratchy wool of a gloved hand and drew it between them to rest it against the line of his cock.

'Feel what you fucking do to me?'

Mitchell barely nodded, but it was all the encouragement Anders needed. He let go and felt Mitchell's fingers flex and trace and curve over the bulge. And it felt insanely good.

'Let me touch you,' Anders fumbled as he reached for the zip on Mitchell's jeans and hissed his disapproval. He'd barely ever laid a finger on Mitchell, not touched any of his skin before, and the sudden closeness made him clumsy. Mitchell's eyes warmed to whiskey and the strokes of his fingers on Anders' shaft slowed to a soft rub of knuckles through the fabric and it felt like the whole world was focussing in around them. He was standing so close now he could feel soft huffs of breath from Mitchell's lips ghosting on his face, together with a whisper of woodsmoke and vodka that left him heady with anticipation.

~~~~~~

A red glow began to filter across to the bed. Ambrose tried not to move as he looked sideways through half-closed eyes to follow it back to its source. Beyond the desk, furthest away from the door and the bed, a halo of hazy crimson and green shone behind an arched dark-oak door. He couldn't stifle the cry anymore. Not now. This couldn't be for him. He wasn't ready to leave this world while there was still so much to learn. It was wrong. It shouldn't be like this, to be dragged terror-filled and alone away from his home. It had not been like this for the other souls he'd seen pass through their doors over the centuries. This was an aberration. The door swung open and the room was bathed in a rectangle of sickly light.

~~~~~~

Anders didn't take his eyes from Mitchell's as his fingers reached through the opened jeans and stroked the line of Mitchell's cock through his boxers, grazing up and down without anywhere near enough pressure, feeling him twitch and fill even more. Mitchell's eyes started to close and his head fall back, but he dragged them open again almost immediately. Through the mist of lust it dawned on Anders that this is what he needed most - to see Mitchell, to see his pleasure in those eyes - and that Mitchell had understood that need before he did himself.

He gripped with more pressure, as if as a thank you, and Mitchell flexed his hips forward making it easier for Anders to push the jeans far enough down that he could easily slip fingers into the boxers and draw his cock out. The strangled 'nnng' Mitchell released fired him up even higher. He wanted to wring that sound from Mitchell over and over.

He concentrated on the generous weight of the cock, feeling the length with the palm of his hand and his stomach lurched when the twist of his wrist at the top of a stroke released a pulse of precome which he spread down over the silk of the shaft. He was so concentrated he missed Mitchell's hands unbuckling his belt and popping the button of his flies until he felt the pull of the zip being lowered. He shook his head and Mitchell's hands stopped mid-motion.

'No. Step back,' he murmured, and, eyes locked, they edged back until Mitchell was supported by the wall behind him. 'Now let me.'

Without breaking his rhythm working Mitchell, his other hand unceremoniously shoved down his own trousers and briefs. Sharp, breathy moans started to spill between them and Mitchell slumped a little against the wall, enough for Anders to be able to line up their cocks just right and then there was the first delicious smooth drag as he rutted up against Mitchell. So perfect, he thought.

Mitchell's hands had settled for pressing against the wall behind him, as his hips made involuntary tiny jerks upward with each shared stroke, and Anders didn't know how he was going to last more than a few minutes. Looking straight into the lust-blown dilation of Mitchell's eyes, he decided not to even try because this was fucking, fucking perfect.

Mitchell didn't stifle a groan when Anders brought his hand up and licked across his palm before reaching between them and wrapped his fingers around both their cocks. The sound Mitchell made had Anders pulsing in his own grip and he felt Mitchell shudder as he fucked up into his fist, feeling the length of his erection drag against Mitchell's skin. And then they were sliding together, finding the sweet, hot rhythm.

~~~~~~

Ambrose watched the doorway from his bed. If death wanted him then it would have to come and get him because he was not going voluntarily. The door was wrong, he knew it. He gripped the edge of the bedframe with each hand as the desk shunted away from the wall and a wave of shadow rose up from behind it. The blackness slithered across the wall, thick and substantial. Ambrose closed his mind to the aura that threatened to engulf him but it was a losing battle as emptiness and rage began to seep into every pore. He wanted to cry for pity. And then the darkness paused at the door, shape shimmering against the light, and looked back at him. He held his breath until, with a low sibilant hiss of breath, it passed through and the door closed.

~~~~~~

Both of them were leaking now and the slick sound of his hand stroking and squeezing their flesh was driving Anders on. He could hold on until Mitchell came, he had to, because he had to see the sparks and the lights go off behind Mitchell's eyes when he did. He just had to. His weight rested against his left hand pressing into the wall beside Mitchell's shoulder, and he felt the sting of the salty tracks of sweat as they trickled down between his shoulder blades. The thumping beat of his heartbeat sped up and his head was starting to swim but he could tell that Mitchell was getting close from a quiver in his thighs and a stutter in the thrusts. He sped up the pump of his hand, twisting on the downstroke before his thumb pressed onto the slit of Mitchell's cock and he felt Mitchell pulse hard and come with a punched-out shout. For a second Mitchell's eyes scrunched shut, but when he opened them the blown heat in the hazel almost burned.

Barely pausing to smooth the come from his hand over them both, Anders held Mitchell, stroking him through the shudders of release until Mitchell dragged one of his hands from the wall and curled his gloved fingers over Anders' own, stroking along with him once, twice.

'It's okay, let go,' Mitchell's voice sounded raspy in the quiet, and his eyes had changed from hot to soft and glassy and Anders felt his legs start to shake and on the third pump of their intertwined hands he let go.

~~~~~~

Ambrose sat in the dark.

The door was gone.

There was a demon passing between the worlds.

And she had chosen to visit him from behind the door.

A warning, perhaps.

Mitchell was right to be afraid.

He didn't feel smug anymore.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to solarlotus.
> 
> ...and just in case anyone's confused: Plaster = Band-Aid ;)


	7. Lessons in RentaGhosting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go bump in Anders' bedroom - but not in a fun way.

'Oh yuk.'

Annie wrinkled her nose.

'Mitchell?' she shouted in the direction of the stairs, 'what the hell have you been doing with these gloves? Shall I rinse them for you?'

Her fingers hovered above the sink where green wool peeked through the murky, milky water where the gloves had been left soaking in the bowl.

'No! Don't!' Mitchell yelled from downstairs. 'S'fine. I've got it covered.'

She knew the thud on the stairs well enough to recognise that he was taking them two at a time. Sure enough, he was at the bathroom door in record time.

'Thanks, but, I'll do it. Here-'

He held out a mug covered in primroses and cornflowers.

'Awww, you made me tea. No-one ever makes me tea. Thank you.'

'Thought you might like to cuddle it for a bit, warm your fingers up. It's Lady Grey.'

Annie cocked an eyebrow at him as she took the mug.

'I don't really feel the cold like you, but that's lovely. Thanks. And why are you so thoughtful and cheerful this morning?'

'Am I? Um. No reason.'

'Really? You came home after two this morning.'

'S'not unusual, Annie.'

'I know. But you don't usually start singing Ella Fitzgerald songs as you crash about going to bed, not even when you're really bladdered, and anyway, you didn't sound drunk, just happy. Usually when you sing at night it's these old folk tunes where everyone dies horribly by the end of the second verse. I say 'sing' but it's more like enhanced humming and you think nobody can hear you.'

'Were you listening at my door again?'

'No need. You're lucky George is still at Nina's place or he'd be following you round with the Gershwin songbook all day.'

'He's there again? I guess the "taking it slow" thing is a goner already.'

'I know, it's great, isn't it. They're cleaning her flat up for the end of the lease. I expect he'll be gone for days, 'specially if he's alphabetising and colour coding the packing cases. He's already nicked my best colour marker pens. It'll be lovely to have Nina move in here properly. I mean, I know they fight like... I was going to say cat and dog, but, you know what I mean.'

'Only when he doesn't do what she tells him to.'

'Mitchell!'

'Sorry.'

'He's happy. He's in love.'

Mitchell smiled widely and stroked her arm. 'He is. And I'm really happy for him, honest. We'll help Nina, it's going to be tough for her to get through all this, but we'll be there for her. It'll be fine.'

But Annie was only half listening, her eyes had narrowed.

'Wha-?' Mitchell had seen that look before.

'Who were you with last night?'

'Um. A... a friend. No-one you know.'

'And what were you doing with this friend, exactly?'

When Mitchell didn't answer straight away Annie pounced.

'I knew it! You're happy, same as George. Someone is making you happy. Who is it, Mitchell? Tell me exactly what happened. Every little detail.' Annie was practically bouncing.

'Oh God,' Mitchell sighed, 'look at the time. I've got to go to work. Right now.'

'Spill.'

'I'll be late.'

'And I'll follow you around all day and spook the hospital staff until you tell me, so spill.'

'You don't know him,' Annie grinned with glee and he continued quickly, 'and we ordered pizza and read a book.'

'Yeah right, course you did. Did you fuck?'

'Annie! No, actually.'

'Pity. Did you kiss?'

'Um. No. And mind your own business.'

'Awww. Crap.'

'Yeah, well...' Mitchell pulled the plug in the sink and started to rinse the gloves under fresh water from the tap, 'that doesn't mean I didn't want to.'

Annie cradled the mug with a smile.

~~~~~~

Anders couldn't remember a day that had dragged so much. The hands of the clock over the mantelpiece edged round to five-thirty like a slug on sedatives. The seventy-eight unread emails still in his inbox stayed that way. Unread. Even the half-dozen with angry red exclamation marks all about the launch of the absinthe bar stayed that way. It'd been a battle ever since he'd not-so-gently suggested a gothic theme with overtones of Dracula was too cliché even for Bristol. He'd get Dawn on the case tomorrow, she kept bending his ear about how great the city is so she could placate the bloody Bristolians. It would be payback for letting her leave early today because of something about a fabulous market.

He slammed the laptop shut, but it didn't stop his mind from crawling over everything again.

Mitchell had pretty much run away from him last night and he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or pissed off about it. It avoided all the awkward pauses and thankyous, which was great. Mitchell had seemed okay, polite even, all promises to call soon as he took the business card Anders had grabbed from the hall table and shoved into his hand. But he didn't trust Mitchell to follow through. There was something too closed-off about him, he'd be chatty and funny and then this mask would come down. Anders wasn't bothered about the whole talking thing, not when the guy looked and felt like a god and sure as fuck knew what to do with his gorgeous lips apart from chat.

It had been hot, getting off like that, very hot, and now he could walk away with a smile and no further injuries. But there was this niggling thought all day that he wanted more. Much more. Mitchell-stretched-on-his-bed-fucked-out-and-moaning type more.

He thought about taking a leisurely wank in the shower and then calling Damien and Mickey and suggesting they hit the clubs. After all there was more than one gorgeous hook-up to be found in this town, and it was one of the advantages of having the J:PRB office in the front room - easy access to a bedroom and shower whenever the need arose.

A sudden thud made him jump. It came from the back of the flat somewhere.

'Dawn?' She'd left half and hour ago, he'd been sure of that but maybe she'd forgotten something and come back for it.

'Dawn?’, a bit louder this time.

He edged the living room door open and peered down the hallway, listening intently until he heard movement coming from his bedroom. The normal sounds rang unnaturally loud in his ears - the huff of the buses' brakes at the bus stop outside, the ping of a message on his phone - but all his attention was on the sound of footsteps. There were no cricket bats or golf clubs to grab, and no time to think either, because the bedroom door creeped open too, exposing a black-clad figure framed in the doorway.

'Master Johnson, thank the Lord!'

~~~~~~

Anders and Ambrose sat on bar stools, Ambrose incongruous in his robes against the marble kitchen worktops and gleaming nespresso machine.

'Why would Mitchell be here?' Anders was asking.

'Oh dear heart, I was so hoping you'd brought him here when you left the library. Poor Mitchell.'

'He's really not "Poor Mitchell" you realise. He can take care of himself, believe me.'

'Himself maybe, but not his heart.'

'If you say so. Anyway, how did you end up in my bedroom, Father, is there something you'd like to confess? Exactly how much do you want me?'

Ambrose chuckled. 'I suppose you don't know this yet but us ghosts have a... a sat-nav system I suppose. We can trans-locate almost at will.'

Anders looked blank and Ambrose just chuckled harder. 'Perhaps if I illustrate. Now don't panic, my boy, it's all perfectly normal.'

And with a huff of air Ambrose disappeared.

'What the-!'

He heard the familiar chuckle behind him and swung round on the stool so fast he nearly fell off. Ambrose was standing behind him.

'And that's how I ended up in your bedroom.' He sauntered back to the stool and sat with a flourish.

He waited until Anders had pulled himself together enough to speak again.

'Impressive. But why my bedroom rather than, you know, the front door? Unless you're especially interested in being in there, you naughty spirit.'

'Ha. It's not as simple as I made it sound. I don't know where you live, of course, so I can't locate you through any normal means. However, I am able to locate items close to me, and in this case you have my crucifix.'

'Which is next to my bed.'

'Indeed. I'm afraid I may have half-landed on your bedside table, I'm so sorry if I've damaged it.'

'I don't fucking believe it,' and he began to laugh. It took a while before he could speak clearly. 'So Father, that answers the how but not the why.'

~~~~~~

'Bloody hell Ambrose.' It was not often Anders was left speechless, but creatures and doors to another side and paralysing fear was way out of his league.

Ambrose still looked a little shaken by the telling. 'I think it was certainly something to do with hell, or at least the men with sticks and rope.' Anders shook his head in confusion, this didn't sound like anything he'd want to know about. Ambrose continued, 'I've been thinking about it all day, checking through the books, and my best guess is that Mitchell is onto something. You know he was terrified about a demon out hunting-'

'Christ. I'm not a-' Anders interrupted but Ambrose brushed his objection away.

'I know, dear heart. But whatever passed through the door was demonic and the visit was personal. I cannot risk another night. I need to speak to you and Mitchell, that's why I'm here.'

'Can't you go to Mitchell?'

'He moved some months ago to Totterdown but I don't know where. Do you?'

'No. I know where he works but that's it, you could try the hospital.'

Ambrose looked deflated. 'I didn't want to frighten you.'

'I'm sorry, mate,' Anders said, 'I'd help if I could.'

'I understand, but it's the aura you see. Red and green and sickly. Mitchell sensed something too, which is why I wanted to talk to you both together, but it's gone beyond that. It's already touched you somehow, Master Johnson. It's in your bedroom.'

He saw the look on Anders’ face.

‘No, no, please don’t be frightened. Not literally in the room. But there is a - what would the closest word be? - a residue, a trace of the same aura. Can you think of anyone else who’s been in your bedroom recently?’

Anders’ snorted. ‘One or two,’ he hedged.

‘Ah. That many then.’ For the first time Ambrose looked at him with a tinge of concern. ‘I hope you know that Mitchell has a good heart.’

‘Mitchell has not been one of them, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘It’s not, Master Johnson, but perhaps under such circumstances that is just as well.’

For some reason, this bothered Anders. ‘He’s the one who’s assaulted me, remember!’

They looked at each other for a second, and Anders felt the start of a flush rise up his neck.

Ambrose sighed. ‘This will sound strange, and please don’t take it too literally, but the demon who visited me was shifting her shape as she moved from hiding to showing herself to me in the door. The creature with which she has a shifting affinity is serpentine, cold-blooded.’

’That’s not the way not to frighten the shit out of me.’ Anders was overwhelmed by a need to have Mitchell with him, somehow the only fixed point in a world that was suddenly careering out of control. He grabbed his phone. ‘Right, I’m booking a hotel right now. You can’t go back to the Library and I’m not sleeping in a tainted, haunted rented bedroom, so, you coming with me?’

‘I don’t think running away will be any kind of answer.’

Anders wasn’t listening, instead he stared at the unknown number alert on the screen of his phone, before flicking open the message: “ _Johnson. Hi. You free tonight? Would like to meet? How about The King’s Arms? Let me know. Mitchell_ ”

Thank Christ.

‘Ambrose - we’ve found Mitchell. What shall we say?’

His hand hovered without pressing dial, and he whipped round to face Ambrose again.

‘Serpentine? You mean like snakes?’

‘Well yes, but it need not be so literal.’

‘On the other hand, it could be exactly that literal.’

~~~~~~

The queue to get into Peppermint Shark was long despite the drizzle. Anders looked Mitchell up and down as they turned into Park Street, walking uphill under the streetlights towards where green neon sign and artificial flame-effect lanterns marked the entrance.

‘You’re not going to get past the door dressed like that.’

If he was being honest then the skin-tight jeans, biker boots and those gloves were already pressing all his buttons, but the queue contained an interesting mix of fashion and money, and Mitchell did not look like either of those.

‘And don’t get me started on you,’ he glanced back at where Ambrose was lagging behind them.

‘I was expecting The King’s Arms, remember,’ Mitchell protested, pinching the cigarette between his fingers and taking a long drag.

Without breaking his stride Anders walked up to the doorman and instantly launched Bragi into action at full speed.

‘ _Good evening, my friend, you are thrilled to see us and to be waving us through like the VIPs we are, especially as there will be a generous tip later if we are treated accordingly. Right, mate?_ ’

‘Gentlemen, welcome, this way, this way.’ The doorman lifted the rope and ushered them through to the consternation of businessmen held up by a firm hand and a barked ‘Wait your turn.’ He didn’t even tell Mitchell to lose the cigarette.

Peppermint was a warren of rooms, and Anders knew most of them well. The main bar and dance floor on the right, the smaller by invitation only lounge with its dedicated bars selling wine and spirits at clip joint prices on the left, and the sweeping staircase to the private booths upstairs. Then there was the ostentatiously gothic black and gold staircase leading down to the Shark Lounge in the old cellars, the one place Anders hadn’t visited before.

‘Impressive,’ Mitchell said.

‘Yeah. The prices are that, and the dancers definitely are. We’ve gotta get one of the private lounges upstairs later, the things the dancers can do up there will blow your fucking mind.’

Ambrose coughed.

Mitchell just laughed. ‘I meant you are impressive, Johnson. Is that what you meant about bending people to your will?’

‘Oh. Yeah. That’s beginner’s stuff. I’ll show you more later when we get one of those booths.’

Mitchell moved in closer behind Anders as he slowed down at the entrance to the main bar, allowing his hips and thighs to touch fleetingly against Anders’ arse. He angled his head down to let his mouth ghost against Anders’ temple. ‘It’ll take something very special, Johnson. Let’s just say I’ve been around.’

‘Perhaps I should leave.’ Ambrose sounded shaky and Mitchell instantly stepped back and beckoned him over.

‘You okay? Johnson is adamant he can find this Medusa. If he’s right it’ll be safest here surrounded by so many people.’

‘Of course, of course. Don’t worry about me. I will stand over there, by the bar. I can see what sort of beers they’re selling while I’m there.’

‘Anybody sees you or if you pick up anything at all you come straight to me Ambrose. Promise.’

‘You have my word, my friend.’

~~~~~~

The barman confirmed that Medusa was on soon, scheduled for the by-invitation lounge at midnight.

‘Reckon you can find her dressing room?’ Mitchell asked.

Anders didn’t answer, he kept looking at the dancefloor, the heat from the couples and the bass of the music heightening the pulse in his veins.

‘Sure,’ he said after a moment of hesitation, ‘but before this all goes to shit, d’you want to dance?’

He felt the pull of Mitchell’s hand as it took his own and led him into the busiest part of the crowd. There was no scratch of wool, and he realised that Mitchell had taken off the gloves, leaving the sensation of the touch of his hand for the first time. The touch was cool in the heat of the room and the grip was sure.

Mitchell’s fingers moved to rest on Anders’ hips as they faced each other, pressed close by the couples around them, until Mitchell edged them even closer, hands sliding round to press against the small of Anders’ back as their hips met.

The music was fast, hard and insistent, but Mitchell kept his movements rhythmic and fluid, inviting Anders to curve into the rhythm with him until he didn’t even notice the bumps from the people around him. Anders pushed up the hem of Mitchell’s vest under his shirt, allowing the back of one hand to brush across the flesh exposed just above the low cut of the jeans. The muscles under his hand tensed and fluttered under the teasing touch and he pressed harder, concentrating entirely on the scratch of hair against his fingers. Leaning further into the dance his fingertips started to trace the path, first upwards to feel it widen out under his touch and he raked his nails through the softer strands, then downwards bringing his fingers together to trace the trail towards the apex of the muscles hardening under his touch until he dipped just beneath the waistband of the jeans, forcing a sigh and a jerk of the hips from Mitchell.

‘Fuck, Johnson’ he breathed.

‘Yes,’ Anders breathed back.

He pulled his hand away, wrapping both around Mitchell’s waist and looked up. Mitchell licked his lips with a hungry expression flooding his eyes. It has teeth, that look, Anders thought and his gaze flicked down to Mitchell’s mouth, the soft sheen of moisture drawing him in.

‘Mitchell.’ Ambrose’s whisper from right next to them made both men jump. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your, erm, dance, but a young lady just made her way through the corridor and she most definitely saw me.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> factoid - 'RentaGhost' was a children's tv series in the '70s and '80s about, yes, a band of ghosts. Mitchell often used this to talk about Annie's disappearance/relocation powers - "why didn't you just rentaghost home?"  
> Mitchell and the TV - definitely an OTP :)


	8. Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to face their demons

‘She can do things with a snake that are illegal in most countries.’

Anders poured himself another shot of overpriced tequila and smirked. He exuded an attitude more obnoxious and self-satisfied with a single swig than Mitchell thought humanly possible, even for some sort of god-ling, or whatever he claimed to be.

Ambrose had been right, the young woman had definitely been able to see him, and now, forty minutes later, she had begun her performance and Anders was in full flow.

In fact, Anders had been watching Ambrose far more frequently than he looked at Medusa’s dance on the stage just a few metres in front of the three of them. He’d kept up a running commentary, all of it filthy, and when Ambrose finally sneaked a look across the table towards him, Mitchell could see distress written all over his face.

Mitchell gave Anders a tap on the arm. ‘Wanna go get a drink?”

‘What? Now? Are you bloody crazy, man? Nah. You go. Mine’s vodka. Neat. This tequila is ninety per cent bleach.’ He didn’t even bother to acknowledge Mitchell beyond a dismissive shrug of his left shoulder. ’Keep your eyes on the tits, Father because the snake is even faster at unhitching her bra than I was, and believe me, I’m fucking fast - excuse my French - but blink and you’ll miss it.’

Ambrose was concentrating with fierce determination on a point a few inches above where Medusa was undulating and circling in harmony with a python.

Mitchell gave up on the drinks order and shifted his chair noisily closer so he could talk without shouting over the swirl of the music. He gave a sharp cough, trying to snag Anders’ attention.

‘What’s she like?’ he asked.

Anders sighed. ‘Bloody amazing. Bit quiet to start with, but Christ can she give head. And flexible. She’s better than a gymnast, even, and I never thought I’d be saying that. And so tight, Christ those muscles massaging your cock, y’know, she even-‘

‘Fuck’s sake. I meant, what is she like?’

‘’m telling you, mate.’

‘No, actually you’re not…. Mate. Don't underestimate her.’

Anders rolled his eyes and turned back to Ambrose.

'See, I told you that’s one talented snake. Any second now and the thong goes too. Here,’ he handed Ambrose a five-pound note, ‘she’s coming over.’

‘Um. Thank you, but it’s really not at all necessary.’ Ambrose let the note rest on the table in front of them.

Anders leant forward and whistled. Medusa didn’t break her rhythm, but started to move closer to their table.

‘Master Johnson, I’m not sure this is appropriate.’ Ambrose looked panicked, but Anders only grinned harder.

‘Party time, Father.’

’Will you stop.’ Anders didn’t even blink at the sharp note creeping into Mitchell’s voice.

‘Oh we haven’t even started yet, Mitchell.’

Mitchell leant over the back of Anders’ chair, pointedly cutting him out. He rested his head on his hand to disguise the conversation from the blokes sitting at the table behind them who would wonder why he was chatting with apparently empty space.

‘Can you see anything, Ambrose?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s close, but I do not believe it is identical. There is more pink or perhaps mauve rather than scarlet I feel.’

‘What does that mean? I never understood anything about the whole aura thing.’

’Shh.’ Anders hissed. They ignored him.

‘It might mean less anger, perhaps. Or less hurt. Less heat in the blood. Maybe a younger spirit. Auras are endlessly shifting you see, so it is never possible to fix a Divining with certainty. It’s still more of an art than a science in some ways.’

‘Is there any trace of the door? Of passing through it?’

‘Oh yes. Absolutely. There are clear traces.’

‘But you can only tell for sure by being closer, by touch, yeah?’

Ambrose nodded. Mitchell could see the anxiety in the tightness of Ambrose’s jaw.

‘Does she frighten you?’ he asked.

‘Everything in this place frightens me.’

Mitchell chuckled at the dry humour Ambrose injected into his tone in a vain attempt to disguise the fact he meant every word. He smiled. ‘Especially Johnson.’

‘Oh yes. Especially him.’

Anders didn’t laugh. ‘I’m right here, I can hear you fuckers. Why don’t you talk about this shit afterwards? You’re going to miss the best bit.’

‘Ambrose, what should we do? Should we try and talk to her?’ Mitchell looked over at Medusa, and caught her eye momentarily. The dancer didn’t miss a beat, but glanced back a second later, a hardness creeping into her gaze that made Mitchell’s blood feel a couple of degrees colder. She adjusted her dance to circle away from them and Mitchell was not surprised to realise he’d been holding his breath.

Ambrose removed his skullcap, running a hand over his grey locks before replacing it. He nodded.

‘Will you come with me, dear heart? In case you need to use your, um, strengths. I am not one for action should it be required.’

‘You’ve had your moments, Father. Anyway, they won’t get me far if she’s what we think she is.’

Anders stopped pretending not to listen. ‘What strengths?’

Mitchell stood up, the decision to take action already making him less jittery. ‘She came from downstairs, let’s be there to say hello.’

‘What, now?’ Anders didn’t sound impressed.

Mitchell and Ambrose were already walking away.

‘What “strengths”?’ he said to their backs and to a chorus of “shut the fuck up”s from the tables around him.

~~~~~~

The ostentatious gold and black staircase that snaked down towards the club’s cellars was patrolled by two bouncers with white t-shirts tan jackets and sharp eyes. Despite dozens of customers buzzing around the bars, no-one was getting access to those stairs, although a couple of curious punters tried their luck and were politely but brutally rebuffed.

Ambrose glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Anders catching up with them.

‘Should we return for him?’ he whispered, ‘his Bragi would be most welcome if we are going to proceed.’

Mitchell looked grim. ‘Leave him, Ambrose. He’s much safer where he is surrounded by so many people. Not even a demon would risk an attack so public.’ He straightened his spine, consciously recalling the feeling of military authority from years past. ‘I’ve got this.’

The taller of the bouncers puffed out his chest and planted both feet firmly on the carpet as Mitchell strode crisply towards them. However, before the man could speak, his colleague with a broken nose and one cauliflower ear shifted from one foot to the other and held up a hand to cut off any challenge. When Mitchell stopped in front of him, saying nothing, Broken-Nose stood ramrod straight. ‘It’s good to see again you, sir,’ he said to Mitchell, though the nervous rasp in his voice suggested the exact opposite.

‘At ease, Hamilton-Jones. I thought you had left the West Country and headed back to the old Chelsea hunting grounds.’

‘No, sir, not yet. Though if you think I should-‘

‘Oh that is absolutely none of my business, although Ivan might feel differently.’ He suppressed a smirk when a sudden tic in the vampire’s eyes gave everything away - clearly he hadn’t known Ivan was in Bristol. ‘I’ll say hi to Daisy for you. But for now, myself and my friend here have an appointment downstairs. If you’d be so kind…’ and he inclined his head towards the staircase.

The vampire all-but saluted in his speed to release the velvet rope and step out of their way. Mitchell and Ambrose were practically waved down the stairs.

‘Who’s Daisy?’ Ambrose whispered, ‘the poor man looked terrified.’

‘A friend,’ Mitchell stopped at the bottom of the stairs, ‘I think you’d like her. Can you tell which door?’

Ambrose shook his head.

‘Take your time, Ambrose,’ Mitchell rested a hand on the cleric’s shoulder. They stood for a moment, until Ambrose steeled himself and stepped towards the first door. Without lingering he ran his hand over each of the eight doors in turn before returning to the first. He didn’t need to say anything because the shake in his fingers said it all. Mitchell moved around him and tested the door handle. There was no resistance from a lock so he took an audible breath and eased it open.

Ambrose stayed fixed at the threshold as Mitchell checked the room. It was surprisingly spartan given the gilt and jewel colours of the staircase and the corridor outside. The square, windowless room was decorated entirely in white. Pride of place was given to an expansive leather sofa, and directly in front of it was a low mattress on the floor covered with heavy-grade cotton and cushions. Unsurprisingly there was no sign of any extra door leading to the “other side”, but Mitchell ran his hand across the whitewashed brickwork as he circled the walls anyway.

‘Oh dear Lord, dear Lord.’ Ambrose spoke low and strong. ’Deign, oh Lord, to grant us Thy powerful protection.’

Mitchell stopped at the incantation and waited for him to finish.

‘Is there something here?’ his voice was soft and Ambrose looked so shaken he wondered whether he should persuade the cleric to leave.

‘So much pain, so many abused souls. The walls… Oh dear Lord, it hurts…’

Mitchell stepped back towards him, pressing a hand onto his arm. Ambrose clutched at it.

‘These were storage cellars, yes?’ Ambrose asked, but Mitchell didn’t doubt he already suspected what they’d been.

Mitchell sounded flat and tired when he spoke.

‘In a townhouse of this size they would have stored more than just wine and sugar down here. I’ve seen rooms like this before, up in Clifton, with the manacles still fixed to the walls.’

His voice stuttered a little and for a moment he feared Ambrose would make him say more, would ask him when exactly he’d seen those manacles, would make him confess how he’d used those manacles hundreds of years after their original purpose but with similar darkness in his veins, would force him to face again the old horrors lying just beneath the surface. In fact, Ambrose didn’t speak but was staring at him with sadness flooding his eyes. He didn’t need to ask, it must have been written all over Mitchell’s face.

Mitchell nodded, a tiny motion, almost undetectable, but Ambrose’s slow nod of acknowledgment was enough. He continued briskly, ‘Ivan says he knew a woman who had met Richard Turner once, before he disappeared in the late 1700’s. Slave-trader, vampire, icon. These walls have seen the worst of both humanity and vampire. You okay?’

‘Not really, my friend,’ but Ambrose walked into the room anyway. They stood together, side by side, staring at the sofa in the silence.

‘Trespassing, much?!’ Anders’ voice made them both jump and spin round to see Anders lounging in the doorway, arm resting over Medusa’s shoulder as she pulled a plaid dressing gown tighter round her waist. He grinned. ‘Let me introduce these two idiots. Mitchell there is occasionally drugged-up and violent, but he’s seriously fucking hot; Ambrose is weird and makes lame excuses to appear in my bedroom. Gentlemen, this is Medusa.’

Medusa looked smaller and softer in person than when performing. She stepped away from Anders’ arm and appraised them, head to toe.

‘I’ve heard about you,’ her voice was also softer than the steel in her grey gaze implied as she kept it focused on Ambrose, ‘you always stay in the Library, so why are you here with the monster?’ She dismissed Mitchell with a tiny wave.

Anders tried to thread his arm round her waist but she batted it away. ‘I said he was into weird-ass drugs, not a monster.’

Medusa smiled at him. ‘How are you still so naive?’ Anders was momentarily speechless. This was not how he expected things to go at all. He wasn’t looking quite as triumphant anymore.

Ambrose reached out his hand, ‘Pleased to meet you, my dear.’

‘Likewise,’ and they shook hands.

Ambrose reeled back, legs buckling until he tipped backwards onto the sofa in a clumsy wave of flailing black robes. Mitchell surged forward, throwing himself between them, almost growling.

‘Mitchell! It’s not her fault, don’t hurt her!’ Ambrose shouted, and Mitchell pulled himself to a halt.

‘What’s not my fault?’ Medusa didn’t take her eyes off Mitchell, hands held up in front of her.

‘Tell her,’ Ambrose pleaded.

Mitchell shook his head. ‘Why should we tell her anything?’

‘What is your name, my dear?’ Ambrose asked, ignoring Mitchell standing in-between them like a bulwark.

‘Why should I tell you?’ Medusa echoed.

‘Ah. I see we have reached an impasse. Mitchell, we should tell her because she is not a full-blood demon and she is frightened; my dear, you should tell us because I believe we have been sent here to help you.’

Medusa and Mitchell both twisted to face Ambrose.

‘Frightened? Why?’

‘Help me? How?’

Ambrose smoothed out his clerical robes and straightened the cap on his head. ‘I have no idea, my dears, and that’s why we should talk.’

 ~~~~~~

‘My name is Mia.’ Medusa was curled up in the corner of the sofa with Ambrose sitting next to her, careful not to risk touching her again, not even by accident.

‘When did you cross over?’ Mitchell asked from his post leaning back against the closed door, making sure they were not disturbed by any unexpected visitors.

‘At the New Moon,’ she lifted her chin. Mia might have answered him, but she barely acknowledged his presence. Her distaste was palpable. ‘I’ve been through the door before, once, many moons ago, with my sister. It is so incredible to be here. And I mean that literally - I couldn’t believe it. I so wanted to come back and experience this world again. I wanted to be here without being rushed. Just for a bit. It is so beautiful.’

‘But how could you stay? I’ve heard of demons in this place, but only for a night - which is plenty long enough for you to do your thing and then get the hell out. Did you do a deal with the gatekeepers to let you stay? Or were you sent?’ Mitchell didn’t try to hide his antagonism.

Mia blanched. She turned her attention wholly towards Anders, looking vulnerable and somehow younger than before. ‘I didn’t understand that the new moon was especially strong that night, it was at the perigee, and I was walking around looking at all the beautiful things. They were hypnotising. Enchanting. But then there was no call back from the door when the dawn broke. It wasn’t my fault. I was left behind.’

Mitchell’s face was growing increasingly stormy. ‘And what happened to all those beautiful things? How many?’

‘What’s with you?’ Anders snapped, ‘can’t you see she’s upset.’

Mitchell’s brows pulled drew even tighter above darkening eyes.

‘Tell him,’ Mitchell said to Mia.

‘Fuck, Mitchell. Stop being an arse,’ Anders sounded pissed off.

‘Tell him,’ he repeated with no less force.

Mia radiated distress. ‘I didn’t hurt them.’ It was almost a whisper.

‘There. She’s told me. Now back off, right.’

Mitchell ignored him.

‘You know that for sure, do you?’

Mia pointed at Anders, leaning back on his elbows on the mattress near her feet. ‘Look at him, he’s one of them, he’s fine.’

‘What?’ Anders sat up at that. ‘I’m one of what, exactly?’

‘I took you to bed and had sex with you,’ Mia said, matter-of-factly, ‘because you are beautiful and your body is young and strong.’

‘Thank you. So is yours, by the way, and I think you’ll find _I_ took _you_ to bed.’ He stared pointedly at Mitchell. ‘That’s just a quaint way of saying we fucked all fucking night.’

‘Oh Jesus.’

‘Lighten up, man. It’s not like you’ve let me fuck you, so what’s with the jealousy shit?’ Anders barely paused at Ambrose’s audible gulp, but started to grin. ‘Unless you fancy a threesome? Your body is young and strong too. It might even be beautiful, I’d like to find out. Properly I mean. Not a quick handjob in the corridor before you bolting out into the rain to find a taxi. There’s plenty of room right here.’ He patted the mattress.

Mia was shaking her head. ‘I didn’t hurt him, I really didn’t.’

Mitchell felt his nails start to dig into his palm as he strained to keep a growing panic from bleeding into his voice. ‘Is that even possible? Ambrose, is it?’

Ambrose braced himself, reached across and placed his hand over Mia’s, his eyelids fluttered shut and his body began to sway a little. Mitchell left the door and raced to Ambrose’s side, pulling his hand away and steadying him.

‘Don’t!’ he hissed at Mia.

‘It’s not my fault!’ she cried back, echoing Ambrose’s earlier words. Mitchell didn’t believe her for a second. Anders, on the other hand, was swearing in a way that made it perfectly clear he did.

‘Ambrose, are you hurt?’ Mitchell asked.

‘I’ll be fine, dear heart.’ Ambrose raised his hand to pat Mitchell’s cheek. ‘You worry too much. You can’t put the universe back together again my dear boy, however hard you try to keep us all safe. It has always been damaged and one day you will learn to accept that, however unwillingly.’

Mitchell started to protest, but Ambrose stopped him. ‘I must go, just for a while. I’m sure Mia would not like me to say my evening prayers in her presence, it could be distracting, even a little painful for her. I can do them at the Library and then return.’ He smiled at Mitchell’s mutinous look. ‘You know how important my midnight prayer is to me, especially as I missed Compline. Now, take care of Master Johnson and watch over poor Mia here.’ He stood, a little shakily, ‘Mitchell won’t hurt you, Mia. Mitchell, promise me.’

Mitchell nodded and sat in Ambrose’s spot on the sofa.

‘If she promises not to touch Anders again, I’ll promise.’

‘Hey,’ Anders interjected, ‘enough with the bloody jealousy, man, she can touch me whenever and wherever she likes.’

Ambrose dropped a hand to Anders’ shoulder. ‘I told you once before, Mitchell has a good heart and you should trust him. I’ll be back. Bless you.’

And, right before their eyes, Ambrose was gone.

They were quiet for a moment, until Mia’s voice broke the silence. Her words were for Mitchell alone now, as if Ambrose’s departure had freed her to turn her attention to him. Whereas he’d felt her chill the air when she’d seen him from the stage, now he could feel the opposite.

‘Don’t pretend, beautiful monster, I know you understand. It’s glorious. The flesh beneath my fingers, the pulse of them inside me or beside me,’ she shuddered, ‘and then when they come it’s… there’s no word for it, it’s… life. The dancing is a little taste of it, all that energy igniting the room, I can draw it into me and I hum with life.’

‘Sounds about right to me,’ Anders said to Mitchell, who failed to smile back.

‘It’s not your life to use,’ he said, his voice cracking a little. Seeing the surprise in Anders’ face, Mitchell cleared his throat. Oh god. He mustn’t be distracted now. He steeled his voice again. ‘I understand, Mia, I really do, but you don’t belong here.’

Mia shifted on the sofa, snaking forward and now focused fiercely on Mitchell, moving closer to him.

‘But you do? You get to belong here? Come on, monster, I’ve met your kind before. Which side are you on? The ones with all the entitlement or the ones awash with self-pity? Why should you get to stay and play and we don’t, huh? Hypocrite.’

She was good, he had to admit that. Straight for the jugular. If nothing else, Mitchell could recognise a predator honing in on a weakness. The break in his voice when the inevitable scrape of his conscience had surfaced - all the lives that had not been his to take either - that had given her the opening she’d been waiting for. He was the vulnerable one now. Her facade of bruised distress peeled away like outworn snakeskin. He made himself speak before she could.

‘Why? Because we’ve been here for thousands of years. We might have hidden ourselves but we are woven into the fabric of this world. I don’t know why it’s this way, but this is our world too and our home is on this side of the door. They throw us back out here, the gatekeepers, they cast us adrift and we survive the best we can. Demons, even half-demons like you, are on the other side of the door. The men with sticks and the men with rope might send you over here to do their work, but they always call you back the same night. I’m sorry, Mia, but you _can’t_ stay here. You will drain this world dry.’

‘Would that be so bad?’ Mia’s words were slinking around Mitchell now, ‘perhaps it would be a perfect solution.’ He felt her foot hook around his ankle and stroke up and down his calf, playing at the edge of his boot. The grey in her eyes flickered and flecked with green now as she coiled to strike. ‘I can’t kill you by fucking you, you can’t kill me by feeding. We can give each other everything we need.’

Mia began to undo the knot in the dressing gown with one hand while shifting closer along the sofa, running a hand up to Mitchell’s throat and stroking the dip at its base. ‘The beautiful things can be enjoyed by both of us. Anders agrees, don’t you?’

Mitchell felt a flush of lust race through him. The memory of the hunt. The kill. He glanced down at Anders who was edging closer and closer to the sofa. For a god he seemed staggeringly ignorant of the risks he was taking. Vulnerable. Prey. One second more and Anders would reach out and touch her, and then the chance of keeping him safe would be vanishingly small. He pushed out with his boot, knocking Anders over and away from them both.

Mia laughed. ‘Oh, that’s mean. But if you insist. Anders can watch first, if he likes.’

She shrugged the dressing gown back from her shoulders and waited. The invitation was clear, and her irritation at Mitchell’s hesitation barely concealed.

Anders had settled back onto his elbows. ‘I’ll watch, for now, you selfish prick,’ he said.

The air crackled.

‘That sounds nice,’ Mia was practically purring and she shifted her weight forward, pressing Mitchell back and starting to straddle his lap. ‘But I think perhaps you would like to help me.’ Her fingers trailed down to the zip of Mitchell’s jeans. ‘Anders, I offer you a choice, you can use your hands to get these off Mitchell, or you can use them to get me wetter. I know lots of ways we can all share.’

Mitchell felt the thrum of static in the atmosphere. He fought to focus his concentration.

Mia pressed forward, reaching for Mitchell’s lips but he pulled further away. She hissed and pushed his head back against the arm of the sofa, hand resting on his throat, and held her mouth inches above his.

‘Kiss me.’

Mitchell forced a half-smile, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Aww. Are you scared of a little kiss, monster? That’s so sweet.’

‘Self-preservation, Mia.’

’Oh I see. You don’t trust me then?’

‘Not until you show me why I should.’

Mia sighed and straightened up. ‘You are so boring.’

‘Gotta agree with her there,’ Anders sounded peeved. ‘I’m not boring, Mia, come down here.’

‘Shut up, Johnson,’ Mitchell could feel the options slipping away. It was all moving too fast and he had no idea what to do. The energy in the room started to shift as Mia stood, dressing gown still hanging defiantly loose.

She seemed taller, stronger, harder, somehow, and when she spoke all softness in her voice had vanished.

‘Enough games, monster. I won’t force you to play.’ She casually pulled the dressing gown back in place and re-tied the belt. ‘We both know you must choose to give as I cannot take from the likes of you. I’d heard you’d gone soft and a little push was all it would take, but it seems the rumours are off the mark. Stubborn and a fool in your loyalties. You are headed for disaster. Anyway, it seems we are at stalemate. So be it. I’ll offer you a Trade Deal. I’ll let you leave, no harm done, no bloodbath - but he stays with me.’

‘I can’t let that happen, Mia, I’m sorry.’

‘As if you could stop me,’ her laugh was genuine. ‘Are you actually suggesting you intend to inflict some kind of violence upon me? How, exactly?’

She flung her arms wide as if inviting him to fly at her with fangs bared. It was a taunt - chances were she’d wind and crush him without much trouble, and then maybe take her time shredding him, it was only a matter of how much damage he could inflict before he was subdued.

Mia was folding her arms again. ‘Admit it, it’s a great offer. And what about freedom of choice? Anders will choose me over you any day.’

Mitchell could barely bring himself to look at Anders, because he knew this was the simple truth. His shoulders slumped, only a fraction, almost too little to notice, but Mia smiled. She knew.

‘Leave, monster. Your time here is done. The ghost knew it, and that’s why he ran away wasn’t it? Did you really believe what he said about saying his prayers and coming back?’ she giggled, ‘of course he’s not coming back. He has much more sense than you. I‘m offering a deal because Anders hates the sight of blood, bless him. And it turns out I rather like you, which is weird, I never thought I’d say that about any of your kind. I guess being this side of the door screws things up. Anyway, I promise to leave you and yours alone, but you must go now and don’t try to find us again. If you do, the ghost will pay for your stupidity. Don’t worry, you know Anders will be well cared for and _very_ well-satisfied, I promise him that. It’ll be fun.’

Anders was sitting up now and remaining unusually still. His eyes were fixed directly on Mitchell’s face and his expression was totally unreadable.

Mitchell felt the weight of Anders’ judgment. The man he’d terrorised and choked up against a wall only a few days ago. He should step back and leave Anders and Mia to it. Fuck it, who knows it could even work out for them - what did he know about gods anyway? A god and a half-demon, both feeding on sex. When he thought about it, it was a perfect match.

Ambrose was right, why was he arrogant enough to think he should even try to keep a whole world safe. He had his friends and a sanctuary in a pink house; he should go back and lock the door, focus on staying clean and tell himself that was the beginning and the end of his responsibility to anyone or anything. Let Mia tear the world to pieces, why was it any business of his as long as she stayed away from George and Annie. They were his only responsibility. Anders was his own man, he was a supernatural too and could make his own choices. Mitchell could try talking to Ivan and get a message sent to the rest of the Old Ones - perhaps they could actually do something useful for a change. And if Mia and Anders drained too much out of humanity, the Old Ones would be quick enough to protect their place in the food chain. The natural churn of history, evolution, as Herrick would have said, nature red in tooth and claw.

He should walk away, go back to his friends, keep his head down, order a pizza, and get on with living.


	9. Unweave a rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight or flight?

 

Ambrose yanked his bed away from the wall. The screech of metal scraping across stone made him wince, but the walls were thick and the library empty in the small hours of the night. Ambrose was very alone.

His skullcap fell from his head as he leant to peer down behind the bed frame. There was still nothing. His hands were shaking uncontrollably now and he left the material where it lay. He hadn’t felt this mixture of urgency and helplessness for centuries.Disoriented, it was as close to being human as he could imagine - the shortness of breath and frantic racing of his thoughts. Mitchell was capable of the most terrible of acts, Ambrose knew this better than almost anyone. But he also knew with absolute certainty that his friend who was reaching so fiercely for redemption would use himself as a barrier between a demon and humanity, even if it meant being ripped to pieces.

That would _not_ happen to his friend.

There had to be _something_ here.

He stood in the middle of his cell-like bedroom, twisting his hands together. There was little enough to look at - a single metal bed, a table with half-burnt candles, and a writing desk piled with books. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Remember, he ordered himself, remember the feeling. All the years of training himself in Divining must have been worth something. If he couldn’t help Mitchell then what was the point of him at all. Remember the aura.

Ambrose tried to breathe through the fear rising up in his throat when a shimmer of green flashed across his thoughts.

He closed his eyes and willed back the sensation of the demon in his room. It wouldn’t come. This wasn’t a time for blind panic. Ambrose stilled his thoughts, and focussed on relaxing the muscles in his arms, swaying slightly as the memories slid back into his mind. He followed its path, replaying the way it had emerged and the dark undulation of shapes shifting along the wall as it moved to the door. Of course!

Sometimes Ambrose despaired of his inability to see what was right under his nose if it wasn’t between the covers of a book.

He dropped to the floor, praying furiously, and started to feel with his fingers across every stone slab, inching around the legs of the desk and along the wall. He crowded himself under the desk and gingerly searched with fingertips and closed eyes.

And there is was.

A prickle under his fingertips.

Holding his breath, Ambrose reached further, mapping out a long shape scored with diamond scales which curled around the back of the table leg. Because when a serpentine demon shifts its shape in this world it leaves behind more than the residue of an aura. It also sloughs off its skin. Like its owner, the skin belongs to the other side of the door. How could he have forgotten what that meant? Of course it cannot be seen, but if you know what you are looking for it can be touched, feather-light with tiny sparks of static.

He edged backwards, until he was kneeling in the middle of the room, carefully bundling up the snakeskin as his own flesh tingled and heated with every touch.

God forgive him, but it was time to conjure a Lamia.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mia made a show of a bored sigh.

‘Are you still here, monster? I wouldn’t hang about for too long if I were you, I might change my mind before you get your arse through that door. Demon’s prerogative, sweetie. I'll be doing Bristol a favour if I disposed of you, and, honestly, I'm becoming quite fond of Bristol.’

Mitchell was still standing, his back to the door, head bowed so he could avoided seeing the hostility on Anders’ face. He was aware that Mia had moved to the edge of the sofa and draped an arm over Anders’ shoulder. He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sight.

Anders had made no response, not even when Mitchell turned to reach for the door-handle. He looked back over his shoulder when Mia chuckled, just in time to see her drop a kiss on the top of Anders’ head.

His head drooped again and rested on the back of the door.

‘Let him come with me,’ he said.

‘So boring,’ Mia huffed.

Mitchell turned to face her again. The door remained firmly shut behind his back. ’You’ve already stolen enough, please don’t take any more. You’ve never stayed long enough to see the consequences, have you?’ Mia visibly tensed and although she tried to cover it up by concentrating on stroking Anders’ hair back from his face, he knew he’d hit a nerve. ‘What does it feel like? Do you actually feel the years drain away from them? Have you ever returned to watch them die decades before their time because of the life you’ve stolen? Or do you prefer to hollow them out and leave them for dead? At least that's more honest. Because I get it, I really do. Christ knows if I’d never had to face the consequences, if I’d never had to clean up the carnage….’

He ran out of steam. What was the fucking point of hoping a demon could have any empathy for its victims. Herrick’s derision of Mitchell’s own inconvenient eccentricities had been his soundtrack for decades. He was the sentimental freak, he’d been told it so often it was hard not to believe it.

But when those green-flecked eyes slid away from his, he had a flash of recognition - he knew only too well what desperation looks like.

The two of them waited, each expecting the other to break the tenuous thread that had started to stretch between them.

In fact it was Anders who broke the moment, his voice sounding too-loud. ‘Well, I was totally up for it until you started talking about carnage. That’s not my scene at all.’

‘Carnage is what _he’s_ all about,’ Mia gestured towards Mitchell, ‘not me. You already know what I can give you. Gods and demons. We fit together, don’t you see?’

‘Ying and yang. Gin and tonic. Fish and chips. That sort of thing?’

‘Exactly. You have no idea how much fun we are going to have.’

‘No carnage.’

‘Definitely not. There’s a whole world for us to play in. Just think, no barriers, no rules, no more infantile morality. We’ll be irresistible.’

‘Sounds a blast,’ Anders’ smile was enough encouragement for her to move closer. He raised a hand to press a finger to her chin, just holding her face away so he could see her. ‘What Mitchell said, that thing about hollowing people. Is that what you’d do to me, or have you already done it?’

‘It’s different with you, that’s why we fit,’ she said. ‘You have thousands of years of life already behind you and I can’t drain all that with a night fucking, however amazing we can make it. Your god won’t let me have more than a sip of it at a time anyway - just for the kick. And wow, you have no idea how hot that is, it drives me wild. He’s fun, your god, he likes to have a little joke, but he’ll leave me alone. This is only about us.’

‘Yeah. He’s a tease alright.’

Mitchell had only been half-listening. Instead of hearing the words he’d been watching the fidgeting of Mia’s fingers and the way she so often glanced away from either of the men in the room to scan the walls around her.

Forcing himself to ignore the anger rolling his gut at how easily Anders was moving into Mia’s world, he decided to use the last throw of the dice. If he was wrong, it was all over anyway.

‘What are you running from?’ He spoke with force. When there was no response he ploughed on, stepping forward with each barked question. ‘I’m not a fucking idiot, Mia. You’re hiding. Who from? It’s the door, isn’t it?’ She involuntarily glanced at the wall and he laughed. It wasn’t a friendly sound. ‘It’s something behind the door and it’s coming to get you. I’m not surprised you’re scared. I’d be fucking terrified.’

‘Whoa, Mitchell!’ Anders was already rising to Mia’s defence. Mitchell fought through his disappointment, his voice louder.

‘You think you can hide from them? Go on the run with a god? Less gin and tonic, more Bonnie and Clyde. It _will_ be carnage. And you’ll lose.’

Mia wasn’t fighting back yet. She had been caught out and the balance had tipped. He had to keep pressing before she could regroup.

‘Is it the Gatekeepers? What happened?’ And then he realised how tin-eared he’d been - she’d practically told him already. He shifted his stance, softening the lines of his body, voice lowered to draw her in. ‘I’ve been there too, you know, the corridor behind the door. The men with sticks and the men with rope.’

For a moment it looked as if she wouldn’t talk, but then she shot a look behind her again. ’Shhh’, her hiss was sibilant, ‘they’ll hear.’

‘Why should I care?’ This time, he made the question sound more like an enquiry than an accusation. When she didn’t reply, he sighed. ‘Alright, neither of us want those bastards here,’ he thought of Annie and gulped. Would the demon spot a lie? Maybe not when she’s this jittery. He decided to take the chance. ’But you know what? I’ll take the risk. Game over. Bring it on. How about you?’

It sounded hollow to his own ears, but Mia stared at him for a long time. Then she spoke, crystal clear.

‘That thing I said about having been here before, it isn’t true. I wasn’t supposed to come. My half-sisters come each year and they always said I wasn’t ready, they said it takes so long for a half-demon like me to learn how to control the power I have. There are rules, so many rules. And then just when I’m close they still say I should wait because I can be hurt on this side of the door. And- Oh—‘. A tiny shake of the head told Mitchell she was going to clam up. He had to keep her talking.

‘So you sneaked out anyway,’ Mitchell added, ‘and then you are on your own and found out they were right to be worried.’

‘I did just fine. It’s as beautiful here as I’d dreamt. It was strange and wonderful. But then I got a message from the Gatekeepers that they’re coming to get me back and I won’t be allowed to return to my family. They say rules are rules and it’s my own fault and I’ll be kept alone for a millennium. So I have no choice, I’m not going back at all. They can’t make me if I get stronger.’

‘You mean if you build your energy source here? Oh Mia, you'll hurt so many people and they’ll still find you.’

‘How stupid do you think I am, monster? Of course they’ll find me. But I’m getting stronger with each sip, and I’ve found something to trade. Now I have leverage. I give them what they want, they’ll leave me alone.’

Anders was working hard to follow what was happening in front of him. ‘So which am I? The fuck-battery for you to drain, or the trade-in for when you go on the run?’ he asked, totally calm.

Mia was genuinely shocked. ‘No. Neither. The Gatekeepers don’t need you, Anders. Gods aren’t part of their brief. That’s why we’re so lucky to have found each other. But there’s been loads of strange shit happening in Bristol since I’ve been here and I meet plenty of people around the clubs, I ask questions, and it wasn’t so tricky to find out what they want.’ She grinned at Mitchell.

Mitchell went cold. Loneliness could make you do terrible things especially when you have the power to do them easily.Mitchell understood that better than anyone. It was equal parts terrifying and sad to see Mia clawing at a chance to recruit Anders to her side. If making a foul deal was the price of companionship, she’d make it in a heartbeat.

Anders called back her attention. ‘I don’t know who the hell ‘they’ are, but they want Mitchell?’

She shook her head. ‘Why would they want _him_ , they’ve thrown him out already.’

Mitchell finally got it. The trade. He knew what Mia was going to use to buy her freedom. Mia’s grin disappeared as she watched the penny drop. She’d won.

‘Good,’ Anders was saying, ‘he might be a boring prick but I wouldn’t want him tortured or whatever just for that.’

Anders straightened up, pulling Mia up to him, hip to hip. And, with a sudden strike, she kissed him.

Mitchell wanted to rip Anders from the embrace. He didn’t bother to work out whether it was anger, jealousy, or fear uppermost in his emotions. He was enough of a soldier to calculate the path of least damage. He should let Anders and Mia sate themselves on each other. It would give him the chance to regroup and get ready to defend his friends against them both. He could lose this battle and then concentrate all his effort on stopping the trade. But Jesus. Johnson and Mia, it was so, so wrong.

He stared at the locked door, willing himself simply to walk through it and keep walking, only to see a tall, thin, black-clad shape appear sharp against the white wood.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of Mia’s cry of distress as she threw Anders away from her and turned to face Ambrose should have brought every customer in the whole Peppermint Club running to the White Room. It was no surprise the room had been impressively soundproofed, albeit to muffle other kinds of cries.

Mitchell instinctively threw himself between Mia and Anders.

’Get behind me!’ he shouted the instruction at Anders, eyes bleeding black as he faced Mia.

‘What have you done?’ Mia almost sobbed at Ambrose.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ he replied.

‘I won’t go. They’ll lock me away for a thousand years. Give me a little more time, please. I’ll be careful. I won’t hurt anyone else, I promise.’

Mitchell saw Ambrose falter.

‘Mia,’ Mitchell tried to get her to listen, ‘the Father is trying to help you.’

‘No. You’re going to hurt her,’ Anders was furious, still high from the kiss and desperate to get back to her. ‘Why can’t you just let her be?’

Anders started to move towards Mia, only to be grabbed by Mitchell and held back. The look of horror when he saw Mitchell’s blackened eyes was devastating. Mitchell blinked them clear again.

‘Listen! She’s not just offering you endless sex, Johnson, there’s a price, she’s wanting you join her killing spree.’

‘You’re wrong. And I’m not going with her anyway, you stupid prick.’

Fighting for Anders’ soul, Mitchell only registered the first part of what he said. ‘For fuck’s sake. Listen to me, listen real good because there’ll be no way back. She’ll destroy you because she has no choice, believe me.’

‘Mitchell’s right, dear heart, this isn’t her home,’ Ambrose sounded calm, ‘and you must realise I would never hurt her.’

‘Wait. She said she could make a deal. Let’s negotiate,’ Anders said.

Ambrose lay down the ghost-shape of the snakeskin. As soon as he stopped touching it, a chill hit the air, and a door appeared. Made of red and green painted metal it looked jarringly out of place surrounded by the whitewashed walls.

‘No, no no no!’ Mia cried, but she was fixed in place by the presence of the door, unable to move.

Anders was pushing at Mitchell in earnest now.

‘Is that where the gatekeepers come from? Let her make her fucking deal. She’s right - you’re a fucking monster.’

Mitchell struggled to hold Anders back, and managed to swing him round so that they were facing each other.

‘It’s Annie! That’s her fucking deal. She’s going to give them Annie!’ He tried to keep the panicked shout from his voice. ‘She going to throw Annie to the gatekeepers and in return they’ll let her stay here and fuck until she gets bored of killing all her “beautiful things” or she bleeds humanity so dry it crumbles to ash.’

Anders stopped fighting.

Mitchell continued. ‘And she wants someone with her while she does it, because she’s lonely and scared.’ He let go of Anders’ arms and spoke towards Mia’s back, where she stood waiting for the door to open.

’Did you really choose to stay here?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘You just missed the last train home,’ he said more softly, ‘and you survived the only way you knew. It doesn’t have to be like this, Mia.’

The door opened with an almighty bang as it slammed back against the brick wall. Next to Mitchell, Anders instinctively ducked his head, half looking up through his lashes.

The room shimmered in shades of scarlet and a sick-green.

Instead of a screech of rage, Mia gasped.

‘We really are trying to put things right,’ Ambrose said.

‘Mia!’ The voice was heard before a shape started to form, hazy against a kaleidoscope of lights.

Mia still couldn’t move, but her arms reached out towards the shape. ‘Empusa, oh my god.’

The shape stepped from the door, becoming human-scale as she did so. She wrapped arms around Mia, soothing her.

‘Did you think we wouldn’t try to find you? We’ve left a trail of scale-skin across the globe looking for you.’

She drew the snakeskin from the floor and it curved around both of them, wrapping their waists until it dissolved away into them.

Empusa’s voice had a strange undulation in its rhythm, but the hiss softened as she spoke to Ambrose. ‘We thank you, Father. We will aways remember how you have used your learning to help when it could have destroyed. It is such an unusual response to what you call ‘demon’, the dark men of the cloth usually reach first for fire and fury. We Lamia have long memories, perhaps one day we will be able to repay our debt to you in the same way. Our sister is safe now, it is time for her to come home.’

‘But what about the gatekeepers? They were so very angry with me. I had to hide, I just had to, otherwise they would keep me away from you.’ Despite this, Mia was already stepping towards the door.

Empusa still held Mia close to her side, arm around her waist. ‘So let us be quick about it. The Father has summoned the door from this world, not from their’s, so they don’t know this is happening. At least, not yet. We can do this. Come, they can’t touch you once you are safely through and the sisters are already waiting for you. We are together, you will never be abandoned.’

The shades in the room softened and the unhealthy glow faded to a leafy green. The two demons stood side-by-side at the threshold.

‘Vampire,’ Empusa said, ‘you know we will always return when the new moons allow, and we must follow our nature as we have for millennia, but I make you a promise - we will not seek out you or yours. Annie has nothing to fear from any demon. No ghost does. That is my thank you gift in the name of my sisters.’

And the door shut with a clank.

~~~~~~~~~~

There were no fireworks, just silence.

Mitchell felt fucking exhausted. Anders looked wrecked. Ambrose walked to the sofa and sat with a thud.

‘Look on the bright side, Ambrose,’ Mitchell said, ‘at least we’re not scrubbing blood and guts out of the furniture. Who chooses white for a sofa? So bloody impractical.’ He sat down next to his friend, mirroring Ambrose’s slump, ‘Thanks.’

‘No, thank _you_. You were waiting for me, weren’t you?’ Ambrose patted Mitchell’s knee.

‘It would have been nice if you hadn’t left me hanging for so long. How exactly do you make small-talk with a demon, anyway?’Mitchell started to laugh, ‘But yeah. I was waiting for you. You’ve always kept your word, my friend, and you weren’t exactly subtle. It was a feckin’ huge tip off you gave. I know _exactly_ how worried you’d be about missing Compline and midnight prayers, Father Ambrose Herbert, after all you’ve been avoiding them religiously for four hundred years at least.’

Ambrose chuckled, ‘It may be the first time I have reason to be proud my lack of observance is so well-known. However, perhaps I will offer up a little prayer of thanks tonight, my son.’

‘I almost gave up, you know.’

‘But you didn’t,’ Ambrose’s smile was sad, ‘you never do, do you?’

‘I wish that was true. It was a good catch, Ambrose. Thank you.’

Mitchell’s head hit the back of the sofa and he closed his eyes. Annie was a little safer tonight, and that warmed his lonely, cold heart.

It was Anders’ voice that painfully snapped him back.

‘So. What was that ‘vampire’ shit?’

~

 


End file.
